Hades' December Challenge of Awesomeness 2014
by Stutley Constable
Summary: Being a repository of short stories in response to the annual challenge of Hades Lord of the Dead.
1. The Mystery of the Caroller Bells

First in my responses to the December Challenge of Awesomeness hosted by Hades Lord of the Dead.

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller – Carollers

* * *

><p><strong>The Mystery of the Caroller Bells<strong>

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but did you just say I should arrest Mathew Wells?" demanded Inspector Gregson incredulously.

"Indeed," my old friend replied sedately.

I confess, I was as surprised as the good inspector. Holmes and I had been summoned to the Wells residence by Mr. Phineas Wells that afternoon to investigate an apparently unsuccessful burglary attempt. The household of Mr. Wells, a well-known collector of and recognized authority on fine Galway crystal, had been awakened in the middle of the night by sounds of a disturbance in the parlor where his collection of crystal was displayed. Wells and his chief butler had entered the room to find a curio cabinet broken into, a window standing open and two chairs overturned. The men rushed to the open window when they heard shouting on the street. Looking out they saw young Mathew Wells shaking his fist in the air and calling imprecations after a fleeing man.

"This is unbelievable, Mr. Holmes," Gregson said, shaking his head. "The young gentleman recovered two of the bells intact and we have the remains of the other two. Mathew Wells, I think, is the hero of the piece. Not the perpetrator of the crime."

I had to agree with the inspector. It seemed outlandish for Holmes to accuse the victim's son of committing the robbery.

"Are you quite certain, Holmes?" I asked.

"I am, Watson," he replied, giving me a cool glance. "You know my methods. You have seen what I have."

"But, Mr. Holmes," Gregson said, shaking his head and looking to me for support. "Doctor?"

"I don't understand, Holmes," I admitted. "What is it that I have seen? What tells you Mathew Wells is the culprit?"

In answer my friend stepped to the curio cabinet where the near priceless collection of bells had, until the previous night, been safely kept.

"The Caroller Bells, Watson," he said drawing one of the finely crafted miniatures from a shelf in the cabinet. "These should be enough to inform anyone of the theft."

He handed it to me. I examined the cut crystal carefully, noting its fineness, but discerning nothing more. I looked up questioningly. Gregson gingerly took the little bell from my fingers and did the same.

"Messrs. Cunningham and Dolan of Galway have produced the finest crystal in all of Europe for the past twenty years," Holmes explained. "Each year for the season of Christmas they create what is known as a limited edition series known as the Caroller Bells."

"Mr. Holmes, we know this already," Gregson interrupted and handed the bell back to my friend.

"Each bell is as finely crafted as humanly possible and they are as valuable as diamonds," Holmes went on, unperturbed. He replaced the bell on the shelf. "A worthy target for a burglar."

"Agreed, Holmes," I said. "But why do you suspect Mathew Wells of the theft?"

"You have noted the damage done to the lock on the cabinet," he said, indicating the torn wood and the bent brass catch. He then strode to the window. "There is no damage here, Watson. Three inches of snow on the street and no sign of damp on the floor. This window was opened from the inside."

"The burglar could have entered through another window or one of the doors," argued Gregson.

Holmes raised an amused eyebrow at the inspector.

Gregson's shoulders slumped and he sighed, "What else have I missed, Mr. Holmes?"

"The tracks in the snow, Inspector," Holmes said. "Mathew Wells says he lunged from the window and caught hold of the burglar as he attempted to escape. They struggled, the thief broke away and Wells pursued. The tracks indicate no such action took place. You and your men were not as careful as you could have been during your investigation, Inspector, but I saw no sign of a struggle. If anything, the burglar assisted Mathew Wells out of the window. Odd behavior for a man attempting escape."

"The tracks clearly indicate the two men ran away from the window," I said. "Their strides were long and the prints quite clear."

"Oh yes, Watson," Holmes agreed. "Very clear. Do you not find anything odd about them, given that the burglar is reported to have thrown his loot to young Mr. Wells in order to end the pursuit?"

"It seems not unreasonable," I said. "What good would the loot have done the man if he had been apprehended and jailed?"

"Most reasonable, Watson, but not what I was asking," replied Holmes. "The tracks at the point where Mr. Wells supposedly snatched two of the bells from the air are as clean and clear as the rest. He did not waver, nor did he skid on the slippery surface. He simply came to a stop. The tracks of the burglar never vary until they disappear down the alley. His strides are as regular as a sprinter's."

"He should have turned or at least slipped," Gregson said with a nod.

"But you said the bells themselves should be enough to inform us of the crime and the young man's culpability," I noted.

"I did, Watson. I have two reasons for saying so." Holmes went to the small pile of broken glass on the table where the evidence had been set. "My first reason is the remarkable fact that the broken bells were the matched set from ten years ago. The most valuable pair in the collection, as a fire in the manufactory of Cunningham and Dolan destroyed all but fifty pairs of that year's edition. My second reason is these." Holmes indicated the shards on the table. "There is not much here to go on, I admit, but there are three fragments from the lips of two shattered bells. Have a look at them, Watson. Do be careful of the sharp edges, though."

I looked, as did Gregson, but to my untrained eye they looked like nothing more than broken crystal. Gregson and I exchanged a glance before we turned to Holmes for his explanation.

"Listen, gentlemen," he said and lifted one of the bells out of the curio cabinet and gave it a light shake. It tinkled prettily, but gave us no clue as to what Holmes was driving at. He repeated the performance three more times, each bell giving out a similar note. "Quality, gentlemen. Quality of craftsmanship and quality of sound. These bells are made by hands that know their business. The fragments you hold were never cared for so much."

"How can you know that, sir?" Gregson asked, though not in a challenging tone.

"The thickness varies far too much, Inspector," Holmes replied. "Even those small pieces show that the bells from which they came were cheap imitations. Mr. Phineas Wells can confirm my assessment."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," Gregson said and set the small shard back among the pieces on the table. "Can you tell us why the young man did it?"

"Mathew Wells is deep in debt," said Holmes. "He has been losing heavily at cards for quite some time. My sources tell me he has been quietly banned from one of his clubs until his debts to other members are repaid. I suspect you will discover that the burglar of last night is one of his friends or perhaps a fence who deals in such collectables as these bells."

Gregson frowned at this conclusion and shoved his notebook back into his pocket before summoning the master of the house. Mr. Phineas Wells confirmed what Holmes had said about the shattered glass and then nearly collapsed when Gregson described the situation as we knew it. Holmes provided some solace to the distraught man, though.

"If your son is forthcoming with the name of his accomplice and assists the police and myself," said Holmes, "I will undertake to recover your bells and prevent scandal from spreading."

"Mr. Holmes," said the older Wells. "I thank you. My son will cooperate. I'll see he does."

It took no convincing to get Mathew Wells to admit his part in the crime. Before evening we had recovered the missing bells from the home of one of the young man's boyhood friends. Gregson quietly closed the case, leaving the press to speculate about Sherlock Holmes' part in the recovery of the stolen items. Two weeks later I read in the paper that Mr. Mathew Wells would be traveling overseas to India to oversee certain business interests of his father in the far Orient. All things considered, it was the best possible answer for the parties concerned and I quite forgot about this small adventure until the twenty-fourth of December when a boy arrived at our flat on Baker Street. He bore a small, wrapped box addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Well, what do you make of this, Watson?" Holmes asked me, smiling.

I took the card he held out to me.

"To Mr. Holmes, in gratitude," I read aloud. "Who is it from, Holmes?"

He did not answer me, but held up a small cherry wood box and opened the lid. Resting on a burgundy velvet cushion within were a pair of sparkling Caroller Bells.

The End.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this story, keep your eyes open for others taking part in this challenge.<p>

Thanks also to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing and hosting the December Challenge of Awesomeness.


	2. The Adventure of the Drunken Gentlemen

Prompt from Poseidon - God of the Seas - Watson and Holmes get really drunk.

* * *

><p><strong>The Adventure of the Drunken Gentlemen<strong>

"We won!" cried a loud, too happy voice from down the row of cells.

"Indeed we did!" cried another. This exclamation was followed by a loud belch and much laughter.

Lestrade looked to the tall, bewhiskered sergeant on his right and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. The sergeant, by name of Jones, nodded knowingly.

"When did you bring them in?" Lestrade asked.

"Constables Ships and Dunham responded to a minor disturbance near the Shadwell docks, sir," Sergeant Jones told him. "Brought them and a third party into the station around an hour ago. That'd be one o'clock, near enough, sir."

"I can hardly believe it!" shouted one of the pair in the cell. "We won!"

"And 'is fa… fahhhaa… hhhis fa…"

"His face!"

"Face! Yes 'is face!" The laughter from the cell was uproarious. "Did you see 'is fa… face when he… What was I saying? Oh! When he hit the floor? Did you see 'is face?"

More laughter filled the narrow hallway.

"Who was the third gentleman the constables brought in?" Lestrade asked.

"Not a gentleman, Inspector," Jones said. "Isaiah Murphy. Known by some as Bruiser Murphy."

"Bruiser Murphy?" Lestrade demanded. "The man wanted for questioning in the Trimble case?"

"The same, sir," confirmed Jones. "He's in there with them. Like three peas in a pod, they are, sir. Wouldn't have troubled you with this except the tall one asked for you by name and presented me one of your cards, sir."

"Come with me and open the cell door," Lestrade ordered and strode down the hall without waiting to see if the tall sergeant followed.

Jones turned the key in the lock and opened the heavy door. The cell, lit by a single overhead gas lamp, contained three figures. One man, tall and lean with an aquiline nose and an eye patch pushed up on his brow, sat on a wooden bench leaning his back against the wall in the corner of the cell. A second, more stoutly built man with a thick mustache and several days growth of beard slouched on the floor with his elbows on his knees. A third man, as large as the other two combined, lay face down, snoring into the stone floor near the grated drain. The two who were awake looked up as Lestrade entered and cheered.

"We won!" they shouted in unison.

"Fah! It stinks like a distillery in here!" Lestrade coughed, waving his hand in front of his face and frowning. He blinked at the two men as they attempted to rise.

"It'sssh Leshdrade!" cried the man slouching on the floor as he made an effort to get up. "Homesh! Leshdrade!"

"Yes," the lean man said and swayed as if hit by a sudden, strong wind. "I see who… I see who it is. Good evening, Inspector. Or is it morning? It can't be morning, yet. Can it? Never mind! We won!"

"We won!" laughed the other man who seemed far too drunk to do more than flop back against the wall. "Owe! I thinnnk I... hurt… my head."

"What did you win?" demanded Lestrade, staring in utter astonishment at the pair of them and then down on the sleeping giant.

"Drinking contest," said the man with the eye patch.

"We won!" chuckled the other man and then frowned and pressed his lips tightly together for a moment. "I think I might be sick."

"You do that, me lad, and you'll be cleaning it up yourself!" snapped Sergeant Jones, taking a step into the cell.

"Sergeant!" Lestrade barked, preempting whatever the tall uniformed man intended. "Fetch two constables to help move Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes to the interrogation room. And send for a doctor."

"Holmes, sir?" Jones asked, looking a little surprised. "Right away, Inspector!"

The sergeant moved quickly from the cell and down the hall, his hard leather soles making sharp scuffing sounds on the old stone.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, crossing the cell to help Dr. Watson to his feet. "Why did you get into a drinking contest with Bruiser Murphy?"

"Just look at him, Lestrade!" Holmes laughed. "We… We couldn't very well knock him out. Especially with all of his friends arrrra… around. Watson's idea. Good old Watson!"

"We won…." moaned Watson, sliding down the wall from where Lestrade had propped him.

"Drank him under the table," Holmes said with a crooked grin and blearily pleased eyes. "I'm going to fall down now."

When Sergeant Jones returned with a pair of bobbies they found Inspector Lestrade standing over the pair, shaking his head and smiling gently.

"They won," he said and waved the three into the cell.


	3. The Adventure of the Baited Boar

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls – Rugby

I wish it to be clearly understood that I am an American and know next to nothing of Rugby. This was the most perplexing prompt I have ever had. Hope I did it _some_ justice, at least.

* * *

><p><em> "<em>_Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming,_

_In thunder and in earthquake like a Jove."_

_Henry V, Act 2, Scene 3_

-~-)0(-~-

**The Adventure of the Baited Boar**

"A boy brought this for you just a few minutes ago, John," Mary said as I came through the door and set down my medical bag.

It had been a long day with many stops to make. I was standing in as locum for Dr. Bell who had taken a week to lecture in Scotland and had my own patients, besides. I imagined the note on the scrap of foolscap Mary held out to me was an urgent call that would keep me away from home and hearth for hours yet to come. I was partly right.

Watson,

The Baited Boar. Come as soon as maybe.

Holmes

I read through the cryptic note twice, being reminded of my friend's predisposition to brevity. Still it irked me. Surely he could have elaborated to some small degree. Anything that might inform me as to the nature of the errand he was on would be better than walking in blind. But Holmes was my friend and there was nothing else I could do. I apologized to Mary before turning for our door only to have her pull me back and press the cool weight of my old service revolver into my hand.

"Just in case, my darling," she said and kissed my cheek.

"I'm sure it won't be needed," I replied and kissed her lips. "Back as soon as it's done."

Mary stood in the open door until my hansom pulled away from our steps and whisked me down the lane at a trot. Fifteen minutes later we swung onto Thames Row. Almost instantly my eye was caught by violent movement and a few loud shouts ahead. Someone had been thrown bodily from a door, taking half the door with him. The sign hanging above it depicted a boar fighting a trio of dogs and the words 'The Baited Boar'. My heart sank.

Thumping my cane on the roof of the cab, I signaled the driver to stop. I threw him a handful of coins (Probably twice my fare.) before my feet had touched the pavement and began dodging through the suddenly snarled traffic. To my horror and consternation, though not to my surprise, I discovered Holmes had been the person so violently ejected from the pub.

As I pushed on more men emerged onto the street. Several of them were as tall as Holmes and none of them was under fourteen stone. They formed into a clot behind their leader who was advancing on Holmes with knotted fists. One on one I would have given odds on my friend, having seen him stand off some of the worst rowdies Whitechapel ever produced. With this lot, though, I feared Holmes would be bleeding on the pavement before any of the local bobbies could reach the scene.

Out in a crowded London thoroughfare I could not use my revolver for fear of injuring bystanders so I gritted my teeth and broke into a run. I had the advantage of surprise and meant to make the most of it. The first of them was taken completely off his guard and fell to the cobbles clutching at his back where I had driven my fist into his kidney. I struck the next in his jaw with an elbow, sending him spinning away. I ducked under a haymaker thrown by his fellow and tackled the man into a pair who were just turning to see what was happening. Rolling from these I bounced to my feet driving my forehead into the next man's breadbasket in the same motion. He coughed out a curse and dropped to his knees, retching. Hands reached for me, but I shoved them off, stamping on feet and kicking ankles. I threw another elbow or two and suddenly had no more targets to hit. I found myself standing, breathing hard and ready for action above a cowed group of ruffians. Those still conscious stared in bewilderment. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I thought I saw fear there as well.

"By gad, sir!" cried a man at the edge of the crowd that had gathered to witness the brawl. "You're John Watson!"

"I am," I panted, not recognizing the gentleman. "You know me, sir?"

"I should!" he laughed heartily. "I lost two pounds the day you lead Blackheath against Guy's Hospital. You never played like that in those days, though!"

"I think, Watson, that will do for the moment," Holmes said in my ear, laying a hand on my arm.

"What?" I asked, feeling strangely elated and reluctant to leave. Several men in the crowd were now clapping and laughing.

"Time for us to go," Holmes insisted and drew me away. "The police are on the way."

"Police?" I asked, having completely forgotten the errand I had come on.

"I dare say I can expect a visit from Hopkins this evening," Holmes said.

We found a four wheeler a street over and climbed in. Holmes gave my address and we two settled back in the padded seats, safe for the moment. I felt myself smiling, feeling the long forgotten ache of muscles too little used in these last couple of decades. I rolled my shoulders, noticing I had burst the seams of my jacket and not particularly caring.

"Watson," Holmes said with a smile. "Have you a few hours this Saturday?"

"I suppose I could set time aside, Holmes," I replied. "You want help on your case, I suppose."

"Actually, no," he said, his smile edging wider. "I thought you might teach me a little about rugby."


	4. The Case of the Mislaid Exam Papaer

Prompt from Emma Lynch - Mistletoe is a parasitic plant - discuss

* * *

><p><strong>The Case of the Mislaid Exam Paper<strong>

I had been in Kent for several days visiting an old friend from my days as an army surgeon and had returned on the 4:50, unaware and unsuspecting. Having shared lodgings with Mr. Sherlock Holmes for more than two years, perhaps I should have been more ready for what occurred. I came through our front door that cold December evening in 1883 to find Mrs. Hudson sitting upon the second step leading up to our flat. The poor woman looked exceedingly distressed and slightly disheveled. Uncharacteristically she held a small brandy snifter in trembling fingers. Fearing some tragedy had befallen her I at once sprang to her aid.

"Mrs. Hudson," said I. "Are you ill? What has happened?"

Her eyes flashed open and she clutched at my wrist.

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" she gasped. "Thank goodness you've returned!"

"What is it? What's happened?" I asked, very concerned.

"It's Mr. Holmes!" she said and drank the last of her brandy.

"Has been injured?" I demanded.

"Oh no, sir," said Mrs. Hudson. "If he were any other man I might think him mad, but he is not injured."

"Mad? I don't understand," said I.

"He's been in the attic since shortly after you left, Doctor," she said and pointed up the stairs. "Rummaging and rummaging and not a bite to eat in three days. I am so worried, Doctor!"

I patted her hand and reassured her, "I'll see what it's about, Mrs. Hudson. You should go and settle yourself. I'll see to him. Don't worry."

After helping the dear old woman to her door I climbed the steps up to the attic landing, pausing at our flat only long enough to deposit my bag and divest myself of coat and bowler. I found the door to the attic ajar and from inside shone the flickering light of an oil lamp, there being no gas laid on in the attic rooms. From within I heard the rustling of papers and knew Holmes was at least awake, if not sane.

"Holmes?" I called. "It's Watson."

"Yes. I recognized your tread upon the boards," Holmes called back from deep in the attic. "Come in and bring another lamp if there is one to hand. This one is low on oil."

There was another lamp sitting on the floor, apparently freshly filled, so I picked it up and lit it from a box of matches I had in my pocket. Entering, I found the cramped spaces of the attic in disarray. Piles of ancient folders stood stacked precariously on one another. Many loose pages were strewn upon the floor. Near the far end of the attic crouched my friend like a gangly, besmudged spider atop a pile of cardboard boxes. He was stripped to his shirt sleeves and his collar was off. I saw no sign of his waistcoat or jacket. I knew Holmes could tend towards clutter, but his personal grooming had, up until that point, always been impeccable.

"Mrs. Hudson says you have not eaten in three days," I said, edging between piles of boxes.

"Three days?" he snorted. "Ha! I ate just this morning."

"This morning?" I asked, wondering if the good woman had exaggerated.

"Two biscuits and a cup of milk," he confirmed. "Quite enough to keep me on my feet, I assure you, Doctor."

"Holmes! Really…" I began, but he waved a preemptive hand.

"No time for that, Watson. I must find it!"

"It?" I asked, finally reaching him. "Find what, Holmes?"

"Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Discuss," he replied and tossed a handful of papers on the floor. "I must find it, Watson. Therein lies the case!"

His explanation did not seem to explain anything. I leaned down and picked up the papers he had just discarded, reading through a few lines. They were clearly notes penned by a student of history. The name at the top of the first page was Sherlock Holmes. I was baffled.

"It isn't in those, Doctor," he said and pulled out another sheaf of old papers. "It is in here somewhere, though. I know it is. I remember it. Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Discuss."

"These are your old school papers, Holmes," I observed and picked up more loose sheets from the floor. "Mathematics, chemistry, literature, Latin…"

"I know what is in them, Doctor!" he said and began rifling through the papers in his hand. "I wrote them, after all."

"If you need some information on mistletoe, Holmes, I'm sure one of my medical books would have been of use," I said. "And it would have been quicker than sorting through all of this."

"Yes, yes!" Holmes fairly snapped. "Your book would tell me that the plant possesses certain properties that make it efficacious in the treatment of rheumatism and glaucoma. I also know the Druids believed it was a magical plant and fools believe it will bring happiness to young lovers who kiss beneath a sprig of it!"

"It does bring happiness, Holmes," I replied, not thinking. "At least, for as long as the kiss lasts."

"Trust you, Doctor, to make romance out of nonsense," he scoffed.

I was slightly offended, but could see my friend was in earnest about this manic search.

"Very well, Holmes," I said, setting aside the papers I had picked up. "What should I be looking for?"

"It was an exam, Watson," he said, peering intently at a folder he had just drawn from yet another box. "I took it while attending Caius College in Cambridge. Why I did not properly catalogue my files when I stored them up here, I do not know. This isn't it either!"

"How on earth did you get your exams back, Holmes?" I asked, pulling a large box from the top shelf and dropping it on the floor between my feet.

"I stole them, Watson," he said, absently. "Do try to focus on the search, old man. This is important."

"Why is it important?" I asked.

"Because I need to see the handwriting on the page," he said.

"Your handwriting?"

"No." Holmes flicked the folder on the floor and dug in the box for another. "Professor Lynch's assistant graded the exams and made notes regarding wrong or questionable answers."

"Wrong answers? You, Holmes?"

"In botany? Really, Watson!" Holmes sounded perturbed. "My answer was questionable and so was referred to Professor Lynch. I suspect the assistant was a little out of his depth, though, I believe Ronald Sidney Morgan has learned a thing or two since that time."

"Ronald Sidney Morgan?" I mused. "Why does that name sound so familiar, Holmes?"

"It has been in every newspaper in the country, Watson," he replied. "And on the lips of every gossip."

"Is he the Morgan betrothed to that American heiress?" I asked, astonished that Holmes had been at school with the man.

"Genevieve Winslow," he intoned dramatically. "Daughter of the recently deceased Alan Harcourt Winslow III."

"I see," said I. "What has this to do with you and why are we looking for this old exam paper?"

"It seems Mr. Winslow's widow is convinced her husband was murdered," Holmes explained, pulling out another folder. "Scotland Yard made a cursory investigation and found insufficient reason to dig any deeper."

"I can understand that, Holmes," I told him. "The man had a history of heart disease. He died in his bath at the Brown Hotel. The door to the family's suite was locked from the inside."

"The very reasons Lestrade gave for not looking any deeper," he murmured. I thought I detected a hint of disapproval in his tone.

"You said Caius College, didn't you, Holmes?" I asked, trying not to show I was ruffled.

"Yes," he said and looked over my shoulder.

"Seventy-five and seventy-six?"

"Yes, yes!" Holmes' voice grew more excited.

"Botany," I said and handed him the folder.

"Watson!" said he and snatched the folder eagerly. "This is it! Come, Watson! Good man! Well done! Follow me!"

With the agility of a monkey Holmes sprang between the teetering boxes, out the attic door and down the stairs before I could do more than take a step. I found him on hands and knees, spreading the pages in ordered rows over our floor when I entered the flat. So animated was he that I dared not step closer for fear of upsetting his system.

"It's all here, Watson," he said without looking up. "Everything I need. The proof is here. Here! All here, Watson. And that bounder used my data! Oh the gall of it!"

"Your data?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Discuss," he said and handed me the pages he had searched three days for. "It's all right there. I have him. I have him and he does not even know it."

I read through Holmes' answer to the question, impressed with its thoroughness and clarity. I confess, it read more like a monogram in a professional journal than the musings of a student. He placed special emphasis on the medicinal applications of mistletoe and the ailments it might be used to treat and by the end of his answer I was tempted to get pad and pen to make a few notes. However, Holmes was clearly interested in something else. I read the notes Morgan had made and the note Professor Lynch had written below them. What Holmes hoped to glean from these, I did not know.

"Holmes," I said. "This is most impressive work, but what does it have to do with the death of Mr. Winslow?"

"As you said, he had a history of heart disease, Watson," said Holmes, lighting his pipe and dropping into his chair by the fire. "When Mrs. Winslow asked me to investigate I was given full access to their suite at the Brown Hotel. I discovered unusual flakes of a dark brown material I took for tobacco, at first. Closer inspection revealed these flakes came from mistletoe bark. There was considerably less than a gram, but sufficient to suggest there had been much more. I found all of them on the carpet near the leg of one chair at the small dining table.

"Mrs. Winslow recounted to me the events of the day her husband died. The family left the hotel early that morning to visit several stores and the museum where they met Morgan. After the museum they attended an early concert and then returned to their suite. When I inquired more closely, Mrs. Winslow recalled that she had persuaded her husband to stop at a jeweler's as there was a bracelet she was interested in purchasing for one of their nieces. Morgan and Genevieve proceeded to the hotel and returned to the suite. Genevieve, being a proper lady, retired to her room with her maid while Morgan remained in the sitting room waiting for room service to bring up the luncheon which Mr. Winslow had ordered before leaving that morning. Better for him had he been less organized on that day, Watson."

"Less organized, Holmes?" I wondered.

"As is the habit of most Americans, the Winslows had coffee with their lunch," Holmes went on without explaining. "Mrs. Winslow recalled her husband saying his had a very strong flavor, though he did not complain of it. Because she had not been able to decide on the bracelet before lunch, Mrs. Winslow asked her daughter and Morgan to go with her to the jeweler's shop and help make up her mind. When they returned Mr. Winslow was dead in his bath."

"So you believe Morgan put mistletoe in Winslow's coffee?" I asked, thinking hard. "According to what I have just read from your exam, Holmes, mistletoe could be used to treat certain heart conditions."

"If an infusion were properly diluted and ingested, yes," he said and puffed out a great cloud of smoke. "I believe Morgan used a tea infuser loaded with dried mistletoe bark to poison Mr. Winslow's coffee. Grams of mistletoe bark to a gallon of water would be sufficient to treat certain ailments. The dosage Morgan used might have been enough to kill Winslow at the table. It would not have mattered. The police would have come to the same conclusion no matter where he died."

"How will you prove Morgan poisoned him, Holmes?" I asked and took my pipe down from the rack.

"Mrs. Winslow has a few friends here in London, Watson," he said with a slight smile. "And, as you know, money talks. Morgan, my dear fellow, is doomed."

* * *

><p>A.N. – From: THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE "My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night."<p> 


	5. The Case of the Lost Little Girl

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller – Doll

* * *

><p><strong>The Case of the Lost Little Girl<strong>

It all started with an innocuous knock at the front door of 221B Baker Street and ended in St. Mary's Churchyard on Paddington Green. But I suppose I should set the scene, first, and tell the story as it happened.

A light snow was falling that cold December afternoon. Holmes and I were seated opposite each other by the fireside. I was reading one of my medical journals and Holmes was putting new strings on his violin. From downstairs came the sound of the knocker on the front door and we both looked up.

"A man," Holmes said, judiciously. "One accustomed to authority, by the sound of it."

I set aside my journal and stood, collecting my pipe and tobacco from the mantelpiece. Holmes rose and went into his room, taking off his dressing gown as he went. He returned a moment later wearing a jacket and was just in time to answer the knock at our door.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said, greeting our venerable landlady. "A caller for me, I presume."

"A policeman, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Where is he, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Holmes, peering out onto the landing over her head.

"Down in the sitting room," she said. "He has a child with him. Very cold. I settled her by the fire. I know it's unusual, sir, but won't you see them down there?"

Holmes looked to me questioningly and I gave him a nod. There seemed no reason not to use the sitting room if Mrs. Hudson had invited us to do so.

"Very well," said Holmes to our landlady. "We shall be down momentarily, Mrs. Hudson."

"Unusual for a policeman to bring a child along, Holmes," I observed while puffing my pipe to life.

"A girl child, at that, Watson," he said and loaded a pipe of his own. "I must admit, I'm intrigued."

We descended the stairs and entered the sitting room with its fireplace and the small Christmas tree Mrs. Hudson and Billy had set up the previous week. One of the smaller chairs had been moved next to the fire which had been stoked up and was filling the room with a comforting warmth. A very young girl of six or seven sat in it, shivering and clutching a black-haired doll tightly. Beside her and a little behind stood a large sergeant of the Metropolitan force. An odder match I do not think I have seen. It reminded me of nothing more than a great bull mastiff standing guard over a wee kitten. And this mastiff seemed to be taking his charge very seriously, as he eyed us warily on our entry.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant," said Holmes, his eyes running over the pair. I had no doubt he was taking in far more than I had with my fanciful musings.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the sergeant, turning to face us more directly. "Would you be Mr. Holmes, sir?"

"I am," said Holmes. "This is my associate, Dr. Watson. How may we be of assistance?"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, only I'm not sure you can be. I hope so, but I'm not sure," said the blue clad man. "My name is Sergeant Harper, sir. I found this child near Paddington Green an hour ago. She was wandering alone. Seemed quite lost, sir. I asked her name, but she would not speak to me, sir. There was no one about who recognized her. No one had seen where she came from. I had a mind to take her over to the hospital and leave her to be attended to while I made a report at the station. But it didn't seem right, sir. Leaving a little girl among strangers like that, I mean. I've a pair of little ones at home, you see. And then I remembered you, Mr. Holmes. I've heard your reputation. I thought it was worth the time to pay you a visit if in doing so I might put the girl back in the arms of them what love her, sir."

"Excuse me a moment, Sergeant," Holmes said. "Watson, see if the child is in need of your skills. I will return shortly."

"Of course, Holmes," I said as he walked out into the entrance hall. I thought Holmes was perhaps uncomfortable dealing with a child and was just as glad he had chosen discretion rather than some course of action that might worsen the situation. Holmes is not always the most tactful of men.

I knelt in front of our young guest and spent a few minutes under the watchful eye of Sergeant Harper examining the girl, but found no injuries and no physical reason to explain her silence. Her hair was damp from the falling snow and her cheeks and nose quite rosy from the cold, but she had not been injured. When I tried to take her pulse, however, she drew back from me, squeezing her dolly much tighter.

"It's alright, my dear," I said soothingly. "I won't take her away from you. Just let me have your wrist a moment."

Reluctantly the girl did. Her pulse was slightly elevated, but nothing to worry me.

"She says you're holding her too tight," Holmes said from behind me.

I glanced up to see him standing a few feet away. He had not been speaking to me, however. His eyes were on the girl. I glanced back at her in time to see her shoot a furtive look at Holmes and then down on the doll's head. Her arms relaxed a touch.

"She says thank you," said Holmes.

The little girl pressed her cheek down on the top of the doll's head and I thought I heard the barest of whispers, but made out no words. Seeing Holmes was making some progress I eased back from my patient and stood aside. Holmes, who is quite tall, went down to one knee and gave the girl a surprisingly kind and gentle smile. It was remarkable. I noticed, too, that Sergeant Harper was observing him very closely, as if he were ready to intervene at the slightest provocation.

"She tells me she liked the custard tarts you shared at tea," Holmes said in the same gentle tone. The little girl looked up as if suspicious that he was teasing her. "Would you like some more, Dolly?"

I blinked and had to suppress a chuckle. Even in so serious a situation, to hear the possessor of the greatest analytical mind I had ever encountered addressing a child's doll was really straining my limits.

"Of course!" Holmes said smiling broadly, as if answering the doll. "Your friend may have some if she likes. Oh, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" our landlady called from just around the corner.

"Would you mind bringing in some of those excellent tarts of yours?" he asked.

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson replied and after a brief pause she came into the sitting room with a silver tray upon which were custard tarts, a tea set and the small kettle she usually made hot chocolate in.

Holmes moved one of the low tables over for Mrs. Hudson to set the tray on and we spent a moment sorting out cups and plates and tarts. It was all quite comical. I didn't know which was more amusing; watching Holmes pouring hot chocolate into a teacup for the little girl or seeing the looming figure of Sergeant Harper holding a frilly china cup while trying to look imposing.

In any event, the little girl drank some of the chocolate and nibbled at a tart, politely sharing it with her doll.

"Your dolly says she comes from France," Holmes said after he had a mouthful of chocolate and set the cup down. "She also tells me the two of you often walk on the Green in the afternoons. She likes it there very much. She won't tell me her name, though."

"Silvia," the little girl whispered without looking up.

"Ah. What a nice name," Holmes said. "My name is Sherlock, Silvia. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

I had to turn away when Holmes reached out and shook the doll by the hand. He, of course, paid me no mind at all.

"Silvia says you were out walking this afternoon with someone she calls nanny," Holmes went on. "Is that true?"

"Mrs. Perkins," the little girl whispered.

Holmes shot a look at the sergeant, but Harper shook his head. He didn't know the woman.

"How long has Mrs. Perkins been your governess?" Holmes asked.

"Since we came to London," she said and sipped more chocolate.

"I see," said Holmes. "The weather was warm when you arrived."

"Oh no. It was cold." The girl's voice was growing in volume, but not by much. "Father bought me a new coat before we came here."

"Was that because you had outgrown your old one?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," she said and finally looked up, though she did not meet his eyes. "I kept the old one, though."

"Oh?" Holmes prompted her.

"Mother gave it to me," she said and turned her face down and kissed the top of the doll's head.

"And where is your mother now?" asked Holmes.

"In heaven with grandfather," the little girl replied. "Father says she is watching over me now."

"I have no doubt she is," said Holmes in a voice I had never heard him use before. "Where is your father?"

"In a place called Bordeaux," she said and took another bite of her tart. "These are good. Cook's are good, too, but these are better."

"They are good, aren't they?" Holmes smiled. "Mrs. Hudson baked them this morning. Will your father be gone for very long?"

"He promised to be home before Christmas Eve," she said. "He said he might bring me a new friend for Silvia, but I asked him to bring her a new dress. Silvia doesn't need new friends. She has me."

"I know just what you mean," Holmes told her. "One friend can be enough, sometimes, but it's nice to make new friends. Would you like to be my friend?"

The girl looked at him earnestly for a long moment and then her expression softened. She put out her hand and said, "My name is Abigale."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Abigale," said Holmes and took her little hand in his fingers, giving it the barest of squeezes. "I am Sherlock. My surname is Holmes. Do you know your surname?"

"I don't think I have one," said Abigale, frowning.

"Well, what is your father's name?" asked Holmes.

"Father," she said, puzzled. "Sometimes I call him papa."

"I see." Holmes frowned a little. I believe he was growing frustrated, but to his credit he was not deterred. "What do your father's friends and the servants call him?"

"Oh," Abigale blinked, seeming to comprehend. "Mrs. Perkins calls him sir, mostly. Cook calls him Mr. Lewis."

"Excellent, Abigale," said Holmes, clearly pleased and placed another tart on the little girl's plate. She smiled and ate the last bite of her first tart, picking up the second instantly. "Will you excuse us a moment, dear?"

"Yes, Sherlock," she said around a mouthful of crumbs and custard.

"Sergeant, Watson," Holmes said, standing and striding to the doorway.

We joined him and the three of us spoke softly to keep the girl from hearing.

"It is imperative, Sergeant Harper, that we return to Paddington Green immediately," said Holmes.

"But the child can't go back out in this weather so soon, Mr. Holmes," Harper protested sternly.

"Mrs. Hudson will see to her, I assure you," Holmes told him. "It is the girl's governess who is in need of our aid now."

"The girl was alone," Harper said. He blinked and then his eyes flashed. "I'm a fool, Mr. Holmes! Pardon me, sir."

"Where will we look?" I asked.

"The sergeant will take us to the place he first found the girl," Holmes said. "I examined her coat while I was out of the room. There is a smudge of mud and grass on the back of it and one sleeve. I believe the child was pushed and she fell on the lawn."

"With the falling snow, sir, the signs will be covered by now," Harper observed.

"We should still be able to find an impression," replied Holmes. "Go out and summon a four wheeler, Sergeant, while Watson and I fetch our coats. I've already explained to Mrs. Hudson what we will be doing."

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Mrs. Hudson came into the hall carrying a blanket. Holmes and I ascended the stairs to get our things. I slipped my revolver into my pocket and took my medical bag. I felt these were the best preparations I could make under the circumstances. We emerged from the house to find Sergeant Harper standing stolidly by a four wheeler with its door open. We piled in, our breath steaming in the cold, and the driver whisked us away west, up Baker Street towards the Green. Minutes of tense silence passed as the driver exhorted his team to greater speed. The afternoon traffic was lighter than in summer, but the roadway was slick with patches of snow and ice making the short journey a precarious one. Many times I heard the horse's shoes slide on the frosted cobbles only to click their rough shod hooves into the spaces between the stones. Bless the unknown smith who invented them!

"Here, Driver!" Sergeant Harper shouted up through the small trap that communicated with the cabman. "Stop here!"

"Oh good fortune, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed on getting out of the cab.

We had stopped near a section of the iron fence that was under repair, its palings missing. Holmes, like a hound on a scent, dashed to the gap in the fence and examined the ground while I paid our driver and made him promise to wait until we returned. Sergeant Harper took the man's name and warned him not to leave. The cabbie, looking a little pale under the ruddy blush from the cold, nodded his understanding to the fierce officer.

"It is as I thought, Watson," said Holmes when we joined him. "You see?"

I did. The snow had once more covered the grass, but there was a clear impression from where a tiny form had fallen, making a sort of snow angel. Nearby were many footprints. A struggle had taken place. The prints led off across the Green, through trees and shrubs, towards the distant churchyard.

"He isn't a tall man," said Holmes, examining one set of prints. "Limps on his right leg. The woman, you can see, resisted him for quite a way. She turned back many times to look for the child."

"An abduction, it seems clear to me, sir," Harper growled. I heard the leather of his gloves creek as he knotted his fists. "We must hurry, gentlemen."

It took no skill to follow the tracks in the snow and Holmes was content to allow the big sergeant to lead the way. We finally came to the old churchyard and its rows of tombstones. The church looked as though it was empty, but a small outhouse behind gave off smoke from a chimney. Darkness was coming on with evening. It would be night soon and we felt the urgency of rescuing the abducted woman weighing on us heavily.

Rather than going round to the gate, Sergeant Harper climbed the fence and perforce Holmes and I followed him.

"Sergeant!" Holmes hissed, bringing the man to a stop. "He may be watchful. More caution is needed now. A man who abducts a woman is likely a coward, but a coward might kill his victim to keep her from us."

Harper considered that a moment, his color rising in his cheeks, but he gave Holmes a nod and let him take the lead. Stealthily we three crept up to the outhouse, taking station near one of its small, dirty windows. With great care Holmes leaned forward to look through the glass. From within I could hear quiet sobbing and the harsh voice of a man.

"Stop that!" the man said. "Shouldn't have given up on me, Polly. A man makes mistakes. I was good to you. Shouldn't have given up on me."

There was a clatter of pans and more sobbing.

"He is making tea," whispered Holmes. "In the back of the room. She is sitting on the bed next to the wall opposite this one. Her hands are tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth."

Harper opened his cloak and from his belt he took his billy club, a length of ash as long as his forearm. I had several times seen officers wield these weapons and if Harper were as skilled as he was fierce, I felt justice would be quite swift in coming to the abductor of Mrs. Perkins.

"We go in fast, gentlemen," said Holmes as more sounds emanated from the little house. "There will be a table between you and the man, Sergeant. I will interpose myself between he and the woman. Watson, come in behind us with your revolver at the ready. Sergeant, lead the way."

A powerful kick of Harper's leg tore the thin door from its frame and sent it crashing into the cramped room. The man at the stove spun, wide eyed and gaping. Harper rushed into the room and smashed into him with such force the whole shack trembled under the impact. Holmes was right behind him and I behind Holmes, but the action was over in the instant it began. I dare say Sergeant Harper would have made a fine addition to any scrum.

While the sergeant clapped the darbies on the stunned and bleeding man Holmes and I freed Mrs. Perkins of her bonds. The dear woman threw her arms about my neck, sobbing into my shoulder. I did my best to comfort her while Holmes stood back.

"Where is Abigale?" Mrs. Perkins asked desperately. "She is out there alone! You must find her!"

"Abigale is safe and warm," said Holmes soothingly. "It is her you must thank for your rescue."

"Abigale is safe?" Mrs. Perkins asked, relief showing in her tone. "She told you what happened?"

"She and Silvia, yes," Holmes said, smiling gently.

I took a few minutes to examine the governess, finding that her injuries were very minor. Her wrists were chafed from the cord her husband had used to bind them and there was a darkening bruise about one, but otherwise she was quite well. I gave her a drink of brandy to calm her nerves before we, in company with the sergeant and his prisoner, made our way back across the Green to where our cab waited. Sergeant Harper thanked us and bade us a good evening. He promised to come round and escort Mrs. Perkins home as soon as he had deposited her husband at the station.

On the way back to Backer Street Mrs. Perkins explained that her husband had been an upstanding tradesman, a cooper, who had fallen to drink. In debt and unable to free himself of his demon, Perkins had turned to theft and robbery. Finally the law had caught up to him and Perkins had been sentenced to prison. Mrs. Perkins had unsuccessfully applied for a divorce, wishing to move on with her life. Her family, though not wealthy, was of good standing and she found work as a governess. Mr. Lewis and his late wife had taken her on to look after little Abigale. When they moved to France, Mrs. Perkins was very glad to accompany them and leave her former life behind. She felt sure that her husband would give up on her and had no fear when they returned to London at the end of October in order that Mr. Lewis could assume a managerial position in his firm.

Mrs. Perkins had been surprised by her husband when she and Abigale went out for their afternoon stroll. Perkins had come from behind, accosting the poor woman, demanding she come back to him. They'd argued and when Abigale attempted to defend her governess, Perkins, the cad, had shoved the child down. Incensed by his wife's resistance, the man compelled her to follow him, dragging her across the Green to the little shack where he lived, now working as the groundskeeper of St. Mary's Church.

The reunion between governess and child was heartwarming to say the least. Mrs. Hudson brought tea and Abigale insisted that Holmes sit beside her on the sofa while he told her all the things Silvia said. Sergeant Parker arrived soon after and thanked Holmes and myself for all of our help.

"I can see the things said about you, sir, are true," Harper said and shook my friend by the hand before turning to me. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll see them home safe. Never fear."

And we did not. If there were one man in London who could bring those two safely to their door, it was Sergeant Harper. Holmes was quiet the rest of the evening and I did not disturb him.

Two days later a knock came at our door. Mrs. Hudson entered at Holmes' invitation and behind her came Abigale and Mrs. Perkins, looking much more relaxed than they had the last time we'd seen them.

"Hello, Sherlock," Abigale said and held up a small package wrapped in red paper.

"Abigale!" Mrs. Perkins began to scold, but Holmes held up a hand.

"Hello, Abigale," said Holmes with a smile. "What is this?"

"A present," she said with a charming grin. "Open it!"

Holmes took the package from her and with his customary fastidiousness undid the ribbon, letting the wrapping fall away. He removed the lid of the box and I had to stifle a full on laugh at the look on his face. A small stuffed bear rested within, its glass eyes shining in the light coming through the window.

"Do you like him?" Abigale asked, clutching her doll close. "I was going to get you a doll like Silvia, but Mrs. Perkins said boys don't play with dolls."

Holmes took the bear from the box and held him up. The toy emitted a groan vaguely reminiscent of the growl of a bear and Holmes' eyebrows rose, an amused twinkle in his dark eyes.

"He is quite handsome," said Holmes, glancing at me. "And he sounds hungry. Mrs. Hudson, would you have anything to feed a bear and our friends here?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," said our landlady smiling mischievously. She went downstairs and returned several minutes later with a tray of tea and biscuits and warm milk for Abigale.

We spent nearly an hour with our guests, eating and listening to Abigale telling us about her dolls and the new kitten they had gotten. She was surprised when Holmes told her the kitten was grey and it liked to jump from behind curtains to pounce on Abigale. When she demanded to know how he knew this, Holmes merely explained that Silvia had told him.

The most remarkable thing that I can remember from that visit was Holmes sitting in his chair by the fire with his new stuffed bear at his side. He even shared a biscuit with it to keep it from being hungry, he said.


	6. The Adventure of the Irregular Rescue

Prompt from mrspencil - ...Watson needs the help of the irregulars

* * *

><p><strong>The Adventure of the Irregular Rescue<strong>

Louis Duchene slipped from between the carts in the fish market with his take for the gang. It had been a while since the Irregulars had had anything like meat, but Little Lou, as he was known, felt on this cold December day they'd all be glad for some fish, and he'd gotten three of the larger ones from under the ice. Now all he had to do was get clear and meet the other boys back at the burned out warehouse they currently called home. The fish felt cold under his ragged jacket and he had been up all night, but Louis was young and knew his way around the docks. He knew he could get away. At least, he was sure of it until the fishmonger spotted him.

"Oi!" shouted the burly man from the other side of the carts. "You! Stop! Thief!"

Louis didn't hesitate. He didn't look at the man and he didn't look to see if anyone else was looking at him. Louis bolted for the cover of the alley, the heavy fish jouncing inside his jacket on the cord around his neck. Feet pounded the cobbles behind him as the fishmonger and his helpers tried to catch up, but Louis had played this game with them before. He was into the alley and sprinting for the far end before his pursuers even got close. Luck was with him when a large wain filled with barrels rolled across the entrance, cutting off the fishmonger. More shouting and cursing rose into the early morning air as Louis dodged out the far end of the alley, across the lane and into another alley. He would take the back way home.

Many people would have gotten lost trying to take the route Louis had chosen. It was, to say the least, circuitous. At times he climbed drain pipes to cross rooftops and drop down into small courts. Once he had to climb through a window at the back of a carriage house and slip out of the door into a narrow lane between gardens, pausing to give the old dog meant to guard the place a friendly scratch behind the ear. It was when he climbed down the drain of the Snyder Fabric Mill that he noticed something that made his blood run cold. Two men were beating another.

"Merde!" swore Louis, slipping back into his native tongue.

He hung silently from the drain pipe ten feet off the ground, hoping the men would not turn around and see him. The men were completely focused on their victim for the moment and Louis decided to risk the last stretch. Once on the ground he could duck behind a stack of empty crates and wait for them to go away. He was just about to follow this course of action when he realized he knew the man being beaten.

"Dr. Watson? Merde!" he hissed through his teeth and dropped quickly down the drain pipe. He dodged under cover and peered out to see what the men would do.

"That's done for 'im, Cyril," the taller of the pair said.

"Snoopin' sod! I think he broke my nose," snarled the short one, Cyril. "Whot we do wiff 'im now, George?"

"Lady didn' want no killin', but I don' think she planned on this," George said. "Let's get 'im inside. Tie 'im up and ask 'er whot's whot."

Louis watched the two men lift the doctor and carry him through a plank door in the back wall of the mill. He swallowed hard and wondered what he should do. But that was easy. He would go to Mr. Holmes and tell him everything. And then he remembered the great man was not in London at the moment. Wiggins had said something about Mr. Holmes going up north somewhere. If that were true, who could he tell?

"Coppers?" Louis wondered out loud. "Won't believe me."

He peered at the door, half wishing he had never come this way. What could he do? He was just a boy.

"Wiggins would know what to do," Louis decided.

With that thought came action. He rose silently and darted off between the buildings of the mill until he had cleared its grounds. He didn't worry about taking a secret route back to the warehouse now. He made straight for it at a dead run. People called after him and even a bobby on patrol blew his whistle, but Louis never slowed down and never looked back. Dr. Watson needed help!

"Whacha mean the doctor's in trouble?" demanded Wiggins after Louis pushed through the loose boards and staggered up to give him the news.

"I saw him getting beaten," Louis panted, hardly able to breathe. "I got fish. I was taking the long way here. I saw him being beaten."

"What fish?" asked Jack Murphy. He was always hungry.

Louis slipped the cord from around his neck and dropped the fish on the dirty floor of the warehouse. Several of the boys sprang forward, their eyes wide and hands reaching. Wiggins laid into them with slaps and a kick.

"Louis says the doctor's in trouble," Wiggins snapped when the boys were sufficiently cowed to listen.

"So what?" Jack demanded, rubbing his cheek. "That's 'is lookout, ain't it?"

"Yeah?" Wiggins demanded. "And what happens if you break your foot again?"

The other Irregulars glanced sheepishly around. Jack dropped his eyes and licked his lips as though he would say more, but he nodded his head. They had a vested interest in helping the doctor if they could.

"Right, then," Wiggins said and pulled up his britches as if readying for work. "No one hurts our friends without they answers to us! We're the Irregulars and don't you forget it. Robby, you know where the mill is, right? Get on over there and watch that door. Keep your eyes peeled. I don't want them taking the doctor away without we knows. You lot, get the rest o' the fellas. I'll have the fish cooked by the time you get back."

When the boys scattered to gather in the gang, Wiggins snatched hold of Louis' arm, holding him back.

"Good work, Little Lou," he said. "You know right where the doctor is?"

"I only saw the door they took him through," Louis replied with a grimace.

"It's a start, anyway," Wiggins said. "Go on and bring me Finn. He's the best at this sort of thing. Should be down in his usual spot on the Strand."

Half an hour later the Irregulars had all returned. They sat or squatted around a low fire at the back of the warehouse where the roof had burned through. Wiggins had roasted the three fish over the coals and the boys were wolfing them down greedily while he outlined their campaign.

"First we'll spread out so we can see the place proper," he said, finishing a mouthful of juicy fish. "Me, Little Lou and Finn 'll go in and take a look. We'll find the doctor. After that we'll come back out and make a plan."

"Little Lou said they was men what nabbed 'im," Jack observed around a mouthful of fish.

"And?" Wiggins asked, eyeing the boy.

"Well," Jack said uneasily. "They's bigger 'n us. Maybe they gots weapons, too."

"Aye," agreed another boy, Tim Charfoot.

"Jack's right, Wiggins," Black Will Boggs said. He was one of the boys Wiggins listened to.

Wiggins reached into his pocket and came out with a gulley. He flicked the blade open and stabbed it into a blackened board next to him. Finn, the smallest and slimmest of the group pulled out a short length of lead pipe he'd flattened into a sap and laid it in front of him. Several other boys had knives. A couple had leather saps. Louis drew a piece of wrought iron out of his pocket. He'd spent hours rubbing it on the cobble stones outside the warehouse until a shiny point formed on one end.

"Not much," Jack said, laying his own knife on the stone floor.

"It'll be enough, Jack," Black Will said.

"We'll just be careful, is all," Wiggins told them, giving a nod to Black Will. "Make them play our game, not theirs."

The boys finished their meal and filtered out of the various openings in the walls of the warehouse. Old habits kept them from all taking the same route. Traveling in ones and twos, the boys would attract less attention. Each knew where they were to go and by instinct they would find their lookout posts.

Once Wiggins and his two companions snuck onto the mill's property he had Finn lead the way. The mill, having shut down for reasons only the owners knew, sat silent and deserted. The three boys eased between buildings, staying to the shadows as much as possible until they arrived in the wide avenue where Louis had seen the doctor being beaten. Finn just looked around for several minutes without a word. Then he turned to his friends and waved them to follow. They slipped across the space and up the same drainpipe Louis had come down earlier. Finn hardly paused as he pushed open a tall window and slipped inside. Wiggins and Louis followed him into the dim interior. Weaving machines sat silently below them. They stood on a narrow catwalk that ran the length of the wall, erected so that overseers could monitor the workers. There was no one in sight.

"How we going to find him, Wiggins?" Louis asked nervously.

"Come on," Wiggins said and pushed past Finn.

On silent feet they descended the steep stairs to the factory floor. Wiggins eased along the wall under the catwalk towards the door where the doctor had been brought in. Months of disuse had left a film of dust over everything and Wiggins could see scuffs and tracks made recently. By the door there was little dust, but a clear path showed someone had walked towards the far end of the building.

"It's you Finn," Wiggins whispered.

With a nod, Finn crept stealthily forward. He stopped next to one of the massive looms and waved his companions on. Wiggins and Louis followed, making not a sound. Finn advanced to the next loom and again waved them on. They proceeded thusly, their eyes and ears alert, the whole way to far end of the room where Finn stopped to wait for his companions. He pointed to a doorway from which flickering light emanated.

"Wait here," Wiggins whispered so softly the other boys barely heard him.

Louis watched, holding his breath, as Wiggins eased up next to the open door. He slowly peered around the frame to look inside, but then jerked his head back. Louis and Finn dodged back behind the loom and hunkered down waiting for some noise or any other indication that they had been discovered. Nothing happened so after a minute the boys looked back around the loom to find Wiggins quietly creeping their way.

"Doctor's in there," Wiggins breathed. "Looks bad. They done roughed him up something fierce."

"Let us get him out of there, then," Louis whispered and made to rise.

"No!" Wiggins hissed and pushed him back. "There's two in there with him. Playing cards. Might be another sleeping. I didn't get much of a look."

"What now, Wiggins?" Finn asked.

"If the doctor can walk, we can take him out the door," Wiggins said. "If he can't, we'll have to figger out something else. Either way, the doctor's tied up and we'll need time to get him loose. Come on. Let's look around."

~-)o(-~

Dr. Watson blinked awake. His right eye was swollen nearly shut and he could still taste blood in his mouth, but the pains of his body were less. He had not expected the men to attack when he'd begun asking questions. Holmes had warned him to be careful, but he hadn't been careful enough and apparently hadn't looked enough like a businessman interested in purchasing the Snyder Fabric Mill to convince the ruffians.

"I'm tellin' you, George, I heard somefin'!" said a harsh voice from his right.

Watson turned his head to find the two men who had beaten him standing near the open door of the room he had been taken to. Carefully he flexed his arms to test the ropes they'd bound him with, but they were no more slack now than they had been.

"I didn't hear nothin'," the man called George growled at his smaller partner.

"There it is again!" the smaller man said.

George seemed to be listening for a moment and then he turned and looked at Watson.

"Alright, Cyril," he said turning back to his partner. "You and Henry go an' 'ave a look. I'll keep a eye on 'im."

Cyril walked to the darkest corner of the room and nudged something with his foot. Watson heard a grunt and a curse.

"Come on Henry," said Cyril. "We got vist'rs."

"Vist'rs?" the man called Henry asked and rolled to his feet.

"Come on," Cyril said crossly.

The two men shuffled out the door, each carrying a short cudgel. George sat down in one of the wooden chairs by the small table and looked at Watson. After a few minutes they heard the men speaking in low tones, but the words were unclear. George glanced over his shoulder and adjusted his seat so he could see both the door and the doctor.

"You would be better off if you untied me and made a run for it," Watson said. He hoped these men were not too loyal to whoever it was employing them. He felt his best chance at surviving this ordeal was to convince them to find some other patron.

"You'd be be'er off if you kep' your mouth shut," George growled. He pulled a cigar stub from his pocket and leaned close to the oil lamp on the table to light it. Just as he took his first puff a crash sounded in the factory beyond the door. George rose and went to have a look.

"Think about it, man," Watson pressed. "That could be the police, right now."

"What's happening?" the ruffian bellowed to his friends.

"It's boys!" Cyril shouted back from somewhere deep in the factory.

"Coppers, eh?" George sneered at Watson. He straightened to his full height, throwing out his chest and puffing on his cigar. "Think a pack o' boys is gonna rescue you, Doct'r?"

Watson didn't let his feelings show, but he did not think boys would even be interested in his plight. They'd, like as not, run when they realized these men meant business. He was about to try another tack when something sailed through the door and splatted wetly on George's cheek.

"What the… !" snarled George, ducking back and pawing at the uncouth missile. It left a dark brown smear across his face and the man wrinkled up his nose before shaking the mess off his fingers. Watson heard childish laughter and scampering bare feet.

"Little bastards!" roared George out of the door and snatched up his cudgel before storming out.

The smell of manure wafted across the room to Watson and he frowned. There was something afoot, but he didn't have time to consider what it might be. Out in the factory he could hear angry shouts and the laughter of boys as they played whatever bizarre game this was with his captors. Watson rolled to his side and struggled to get his hands down to his ankles. If he could untie the ropes hobbling him, he might be able to make good his escape while the men were occupied. His stiff fingers had just found the knot when a slim form darted through the door.

"Doctor!" the boy said dropping to his boney knees next to Watson.

"Who are you?" Watson asked, confused by the faded French accent.

"Louis Duchene," said the boy and pulled out something that glinted in the lamp light. He began working at the ropes on Watson's ankles, but the blade must have been dull. The ropes creaked and rasped, but they did not part. "We are rescuing you!"

"We?" Watson demanded, keeping an eye on the door. If this boy were trapped in here with him when the men returned it might be the end for Louis.

"Wiggins and the Irregulars," Louis said and hooked the tip of his tool under the rope, giving it a sustained pull.

The rope snapped and suddenly Watson's legs were free. He saw movement at the door and lunged to push Louis aside with his shoulder. In the same instant he recognized Wiggins framed in the light of the factory. Ragged, panting and grinning as if this were all some playful lark, Wiggins dashed across the small room to help Watson to his feet.

"Come on, sir!" Wiggins cried. "Time to go!"

Watson lurched to his feet, his legs stiff and a little wobbly. The boys supported him as best they could, but they were so small and skinny. Out in the factory Watson saw the men running down the rows of machines, shouting and gesticulating as more of the Irregulars hurled manure and taunts. In spite of his situation the doctor grinned. Brilliant little scamps! Stones might have made the men take cover, but the stinking lumps they threw were more insulting than painful and provoked the men into headlong rushes that the boys easily evaded.

Wiggins began pulling Watson desperately towards the door and the one called Louis was pushing from behind. Watson stumbled along, happy to be leaving. His legs were beginning to work and he thought they might be scot free when he heard a bellow of alarm.

"Cyril! Henry!" George yelled. "He's gettin' away."

There was an instant of silence before the three men all shouted inarticulately and charged towards the doctor and his rescuers. Wiggins pulled harder and Louis pushed more urgently, their efforts combining to nearly topple Watson over.

"Hurry!" Wiggins panted, fear suddenly replacing the gleeful look on his face.

"Run boys!" Watson commanded them. "Leave me!"

"Go!" Louis screeched. "Run!"

"Come on!" cried Wiggins and they were at the door. He kicked it open and they exploded out into the wide lane between the factory and the warehouses of the mill.

The men were right behind them and Watson was sure the game was up. His hands were still tied. He couldn't defend the boys, but he could block the door long enough for them to get away. He began to turn, but Wiggins hauled him onward towards one of the warehouses. Stumbling for a few paces, Watson tried to stop. The boys wouldn't let him, though. From behind came George's shout and then from several points among the empty crates more irregulars popped up. They hurled a storm of clattering stones and the men caught coming out of the door all shouted and cursed as they were pelted.

Watson began to laugh. Wiggins had deployed the boys in two rows. The first row had stopped the charging men with their stones and were now falling back under cover of the second row. It was a tactic he had witness numerous times while serving in Afghanistan and it worked just as well for stopping these three brutes as it did for stopping charging cavalry. The men were taking too many hits to do more than curse the Irregulars and withdraw into the safety of the factory. By the time Watson and the boys ducked between the warehouse buildings the men were no threat. They paused long enough for Wiggins to saw through the ropes binding Watson's wrists and then they were off again.

"You're safe now, Doctor," Wiggins said ten minutes later as the three of them walked along Tumblety Court at the head of the Irregulars. "Tell Mr. Holmes we're ready to help whenever he needs us."

"Oh no, my lads," Watson said, grinning broadly. "You all deserve a proper reward."

Half an hour and many strange looks later, Watson and the Irregulars, with freshly scrubbed hands and faces, sat in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room eating thick sandwiches and drinking hot chocolate. The good woman had objected to the boys at first, but when the doctor had described their part in his rescue she welcomed them warmly. While they'd been washing, though, she had taken the precaution of spreading old blankets over her furniture and removing anything that might go missing while they were there.

Days later Holmes brought his case to a close. The three men were awaiting trial, but Mrs. Snyder had taken her own life.


	7. The Case of the Inconvenienced Lady

Prompt from Wordwielder – Inconvenience

* * *

><p><strong>The Case of the Inconvenienced Lady<strong>

It was in December of 1889 I received a message at my practice from Sherlock Holmes. I had not seen my old friend in some weeks and I was pleased to have word of him.

_Watson_, the note read.

_I require a friend of great discretion. Meet me in my rooms at 8:00 tomorrow morning. Come ready to travel. Will return to London by late afternoon._

_Holmes_

Typical of my friend, he gave no explanation and little enough time to prepare. Immediately I sent round to Anstruther who was always ready to take my practice for a day. Fortunately, I had few visits to make and only one scheduled appointment.

Mary, when I told her of Holmes' request that evening, was quite understanding. I felt more than usually fortunate to have found such a good wife.

"Of course you must go, John," she said with a smile. "Besides, I think it would do you good."

The next morning Mrs. Hudson greeted me with a smile and ushered me up stairs. Holmes answered the door and since I had arrived early, he invited me in to share his coffee.

"So what's up, Holmes?" I asked after Mrs. Hudson had retreated.

"Scandal," said he and sipped from his cup. "Scandal and intrigue, Watson. A dirty business if I have ever seen one."

"In your note you said we would be back this afternoon," I said. "I can only assume you have solved the case."

"Indeed," he said. "I have still to put it together, though."

"It's solved but you have not put it together? I don't understand Holmes."

"You will, Watson, only let me think on it while we travel," said Holmes. "It is a delicate business involving a young man's honor and the happiness of a young lady."

"I see, a little," I said. "I now understand why you said you needed a discrete friend. Who are these young people?"

"Captain Jerimiah Wilcox and his fiancé Miss Annette Blackburne," he told me, checking his watch. "It is time to catch our train, Watson."

"Wilcox?" I asked, rising. "The brevet captain rumored to have cheated at cards?"

"The very one, Watson. Gather your coat and hat."

I had heard the rumors at my club. Many members were retired soldiers and most of us remained in contact with old friends who were still in the army. Rumors of this young brevet captain had spread about him cheating at cards. Other rumors were circulating about large sums deposited in his accounts for which he had no explanation. And one rumor stated he had bribed the late Major Michael Taylor to promote him from ensign to lieutenant while he was serving in India. If any of these were proved true the young officer's reputation would be destroyed and his career would end.

Once seated in our first class carriage with door shut tight I implored Holmes to tell me what he knew.

"As I told you earlier, Watson," said he. "I am still putting it together. I need time to think."

"But, Holmes," I protested. "You cannot leave me guessing like this."

"Very well," he sighed and fixed me with his gaze. "Soon after the rumors began Mrs. Cynthia Blackburne, the mother of Miss Annette Blackburne, came to me and asked me to investigate her prospective son-in-law. She told me that she did not believe the rumors were true, for she had known the young man's parents years ago and had known him as a boy. She said if the rumors proved to be true, she would denounce Wilcox and forbid her daughter to marry him. If they were not true, she wanted to know who was behind them."

"And are the rumors true, Holmes?" I asked.

"Not in the least, save one," he replied and took out his pipe.

"Which one?" I asked. "The cards?"

"No," said Holmes. "Wilcox had won considerable sums at the tables, but he had also lost quite often. On balance I have to say the possibility that he was cheating is remote. I have other evidence to explain those rumors."

"Then it must be the rumor about the bribery," I said.

"That was far more difficult to refute," Holmes replied with an impatient look. "Major Taylor died last year in a rockslide while hunting. No one could ask him the reason he promoted Wilcox so soon after the young man arrived in India. However, there were several officer vacancies and Wilcox quickly proved his capability. It is not a stretch to assume the major promoted him out of convenience."

"Then which is it?" I asked.

"Young Wilcox cannot explain certain deposits in his bank account," Holmes said. "He told me that he first became aware of them four months ago. They were not substantial sums and he believed at that time they were merely clerical errors. As month followed month, the sums increased. The latest one was five hundred pounds."

"Five hundred?" I said surprised.

"I explored the possibility that Wilcox was blackmailing someone." Holmes lit a match and puffed his pipe to life.

"Is he?" I asked, concerned.

"No," Holmes said, sending a cloud of blue-grey tobacco smoke into the air. "I have looked into his past quite thoroughly, Watson, and I have looked into his friends and associates. His fellow officers, until these rumors, found him to be a solid, reliable and conscientious soldier with a bright career ahead of him. He was certainly looking to be confirmed captain. His service in India was a great credit to him as a man and to his regiment. Aside from the deposits, I could find no indication whatever that he had ever blackmailed anyone. And there I finally had my first solid link in a chain of evidence that lead me to ask for your help yesterday."

"What link, Holmes?"

"The deposits, Watson," he said with a satisfied smile. "More accurately, it was the time the deposits were being made. The bank keeps a detailed record of when one of their customers makes a deposit or a withdrawal. Not only is the date recorded, but the time of day as well. Out of the sixteen deposits, Wilcox could not possibly have made fourteen of them. Either his duties would have prevented him from going to his bank at the time the deposit was made or he was in the company of friends who can place him elsewhere at the time."

"And the remaining two times?" I asked.

"Are of little importance in my investigation when stacked against the others," said Holmes. "However, I believed him when he told me he had not made those two. He was apparently alone in his quarters both times."

"I see," I said and took out my own pipe. "So who made the deposits? Why were they made? Presumably it was someone with great wealth."

"I agree," he said and gazed out the window. "And that troubled me for several days, for I could forge no connection. Like all men Captain Wilcox has made a few enemies over the years. I'm afraid he is such an affable soul, however, he overlooked two. And there was one he could never have seen, for that enemy has remained in the shadows since before he was even born."

"That sounds very dark and ominous, Holmes," I observed.

"It is," he agreed. "I have one more link to forge to close the case. I don't think I will need it to end these rumors, but it would be better to have it. Now, dear fellow, allow me to think. We will be in Trumpington very soon."

So I possessed myself in silence and waited. Holmes sat opposite me, smoking his pipe and gazing out of the window, though I am sure he did not see the countryside passing by. When we arrived in Trumpington, Holmes hired a trap and we drove out to a large manor on a wooded estate. I recognized the seal over the gate as we passed under it.

"This is the home of Sir Arthur Helm, Holmes," I said, surprised. "What are we doing here?"

"Paying a visit to Lady Elizabeth Helm," he explained coolly.

"Lady Elizabeth?"

"Remember the deposits, Watson," said he. "And the reason you are here."

Taking that as a warning to stay closemouthed, I went silent. It serves no man who calls himself a gentleman to rake scandal.

At the end of the drive a young footman stepped up to help us down from the trap and I noticed Holmes narrow his eyes at the man. A very slight twitch at the corner of his mouth made me think something significant had just taken place, but I had no notion what it could have been.

We climbed the steps up to the portico and crossed it to the large front door. Holmes knocked and when it opened, presented the butler his card and a letter of introduction from Mrs. Amelia Wilcox. We were subsequently ushered into a large parlor. All about was evidence of wealth and refinement. From the polished grand piano down to the smallest objet d'art, good taste and fine quality were on display. So much so, that I felt quite humble and uncomfortable in the room. Holmes took it all in with his customary calm and detachment.

Several minutes passed before the parlor door opened and a stunning woman entered. Hair as black and shining as a raven's wing was drawn up in the latest French style. Her dress, though of simple cut, was made of fine Indian silk. Her face and form could have belonged to a woman much younger than the thirty-eight years I knew her to be. Lady Elizabeth was breath taking.

"Mrs. Wilcox evidently thinks I can be of some assistance to you, Mr. Holmes," Lady Elizabeth said without preamble. "What is it that brings you here?"

"Good morning, Lady Elizabeth," said Holmes, apparently ignoring her question. "As you have guessed, I am Sherlock Holmes. Allow me to introduce my associate, Dr. Watson."

"Yes. How do you do," she replied, her expression showing some impatience. "This is a very inconvenient time for me, gentlemen."

"I will take as little time as possible, madam," said Holmes, giving her a perfunctory smile. I felt somewhat scandalized by Holmes' attitude, but kept silent as he proceeded. "We come with the intent to right a wrong. To see to it that a young man's reputation is restored."

"And what have I to do with it?" she asked as if she had better things to do.

"I believe you can stop certain rumors, madam," Holmes said bluntly.

"I'll have my butler show you out, gentlemen," Lady Elizabeth said and made to turn away.

"If you do, there will be no reason for me to save you," Holmes said.

I wasn't certain what he meant, but Lady Elizabeth stopped as still as a statue for a heartbeat.

"I know everything," Holmes said.

She turned back and leveled a cold, angry gaze upon my friend, but her face smoothed out and she asked, "What do you know, Mr. Holmes?"

"I know that many years ago you were very much in love with a man who did not love you," said Holmes. "Lieutenant Frederick Wilcox, now Colonel Wilcox, loved your dearest friend, and married her. The two of you had a falling out."

"That's years ago, Mr. Holmes," Lady Elizabeth laughed. "We made up before her wedding. I was her maid of honor! A girlish squabble long since forgotten."

"Forgotten?" Holmes asked with the thinnest of smiles. "Not by you, I think, madam."

"Do you?" she chuckled, but I heard something brittle in it.

"I think you never forgave Mrs. Wilcox for marrying the man you wanted," he said evenly. "I think you never forgave either of them. What's more, I think you never forgave Anthony Blackburne for withdrawing his proposal the following year. And I think, when their children became engaged, you saw an opportunity to hurt them all. To destroy their happiness the way yours had been destroyed."

Lady Elizabeth just stared at Holmes, expressionless.

"You saw the opportunity, but you needed tools to get it done," Holmes went on. "You found them in the 12th Light Dragoons, Captain Wilcox's regiment."

"He's a brevet captain," said Lady Elizabeth. I blinked at the cold tone. How could it have come from so delicate a woman?

"Brevet, yes, but soon to be confirmed," Holmes pressed on. "Another opportunity to hurt him. Damage his reputation and his promotion might never materialize. It would be like snatching a promised toy away from a child just as their fingers touch it. Cruel. And petty."

Lady Elizabeth crossed to the mantelpiece, took a cigarette from a black ivory case and placed it in a long, slim holder. She struck a match and began to smoke, her eyes on the fire.

"You needed tools," Holmes repeated. "The first was Roger Aaron Dorn, formerly Ensign Dorn. You discovered he had served with Captain Wilcox in India. During a polo match Dorn was severely injured. Wilcox had been too aggressive in the press and Dorn's horse fell. His leg was broken near the hip. As a cavalry officer Dorn's career was all but ended then and there. When it was determined he would never again be able to walk without the aid of a cane, Dorn was medically discharged. He blamed Wilcox.

"Your second tool was Lieutenant Alfred Newbank," Holmes said. "He had been next in line to be promoted captain until Wilcox overtook him. Worse still, Newbank had courted Miss Annette Blackburne for more than a year. Their relationship ended shortly after Annette met Wilcox at the Officer's Summer Ball. Newbank hates Wilcox, though he makes a great show of being his friend."

"And what are these men supposed to have done?" Lady Elizabeth demanded, a little louder than was necessary.

"Mr. Dorn began to hint that Wilcox had somehow bribed the late Major Taylor to promote him lieutenant," Holmes said just as loudly. "A preposterous notion. I made inquiry, madam. I have affidavits from three officers stating no such bribe could have taken place. Wilcox did not meet the major until after the promotion was issued."

"And the other?" she demanded.

"More insidious," purred Holmes. "Newbank, the supposed friend, hinted that he was being cheated at cards by Wilcox. Whenever Captain Wilcox won a hand, Newbank whispered. If Wilcox ended an evening with more money than he began it, Newbank whispered. Soon others began to whisper, and the rumor spread."

"You tell an interesting story, Mr. Holmes, but I see no evidence to link me to either of these men," Lady Elizabeth said and turned to face us. "I believe you have inconvenienced me long enough."

"I will inconvenience you for a few minutes more, Lady Elizabeth," Holmes said. "There was one more tool you used and now I will appropriate it to use as a lever. I have two bank clerks who can and will swear under oath that your footman, in the uniform of a captain of the 12th Light Dragoons, made sixteen deposits into Captain Wilcox's account over the last four months. I am certain, under questioning, your footman will confess and implicate you."

Lady Elizabeth blanched, but she firmed her jaw and advanced on Holmes, stopping an arm's length from him.

"My husband is a very influential man, Mr. Holmes."

"My brother has the ear of the Queen, madam," Holmes returned calmly. "It is in your power to end this. Restore Captain Wilcox's reputation. Convince your tools to stop the rumors. End this, Lady Elizabeth, and I swear you will hear no more of Sherlock Holmes. Continue and you will lose everything."

I confess, when Holmes and I left the estate I felt a great weight off my shoulders. The cold December air tasted fresher than it had that morning and the sun shone brighter. For his part, Holmes was quietly pleased with himself. He refused to say any more about the case, but he was perfectly willing to talk about music and a production of Shakespeare he was looking forward to. He made me promise to convince Mary to accompany the two of us to the opening night for which he had box seats reserved. We parted at the train station and I returned home in time to have supper with Mary, and good woman that she is, she did not press me for any details.

The following May I read of the marriage of Miss Annette Blackburne to Captain Jerimiah Wilcox of the 12th Light Dragoons and wished them well.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks to MrsP for remembering the name of a good locum.<p> 


	8. The Curious Habits of Doctor Watson

Prompt from TemporarilyAbaft - Sure, Holmes has got some irregular habits – tobacco in a slipper, for example. What's a strange eccentricity of the doctor's?

* * *

><p><strong>The Curious Habits of Doctor Watson<strong>

Dr. John Watson came through the door to the flat he shared with Mr. Sherlock Holmes late one snowy December afternoon, shaking the accumulation off his bowler and pulling his flannel muffler from around his neck.

"Beastly weather, Holmes," he commented and hung both items on the stand behind the door. "Holmes?"

Watson peered around the sitting room, but his flat mate was not in evidence. On Holmes' writing desk there was a stack of correspondence and a fresh sheet of paper with Holmes' ink pen lying diagonally across it. Watson stepped over to the doorway that gave onto Holmes' bedroom and looked inside. The detective was not there.

"Holmes?" Watson called a little louder. "Are you in, old man?"

"Up here, Watson," Holmes called down from Watson's room above.

"What are you doing in my room?" the doctor asked, though not in an accusatory manner.

"I was looking for your spare pot of ink," Holmes said as Watson stepped in. "I ran out and needed to refill my inkwell."

"Oh," Watson chuckled. "It's under the bed. No, no. The head of the bed."

Holmes fumbled for a moment and then came out with a large bottle of ink. He nodded his thanks and was on his way out the door when a thought struck him.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Why do you keep your spare ink under the bed?"

"Habit, I suppose," said the doctor and turned to examine his mustache in the mirror over his dresser.

"Habit?" Holmes asked. "When did you develop this habit?"

"I thought you were the detective, Holmes," Watson chuckled.

Holmes considered for a minute, reflecting on all of the things he knew about his friend.

"I would say it began when you were a boy," said Holmes, finally. "Schoolboys often need to keep such items from being, shall we say, borrowed. The more trouble it is for one of your friends to find the item they are looking for, the less likely it is to be borrowed."

"That's very good, Holmes," Watson said with a grin. "Only at my school we each had a desk with a lock. I kept such items in mine."

Holmes frowned at that and squinted at Watson questioningly.

"I began keeping my ink under my bed when I became an army surgeon," Watson told him. He was feeling rather pleased that his friend had deduced incorrectly for a change and felt that if he explained the real reason, Holmes would not brood over it for quite so long. "Among the first things I discovered upon reaching my quarters was the lack of living space. I sent many of my things back to my parents' home simply because there was no room for them."

"And that's when you began putting your ink under your bed?" Holmes asked dubiously.

"Oh, no, Holmes," Watson smiled. "When the army went on campaign."

"You put your ink under the bed so that no one would abscond with it while you were gone?" Holmes asked, groping for the correct explanation.

"No, Holmes," Watson said in a patiently admonishing tone. "The servants were quite trustworthy. Everyone else went with the army. But on campaign, you see, even officers must live in tents from time to time. Our tents were cramped. My cot was against one wall and Murray's was against the other. My writing desk, such as it was, was outside under a fly. It was Murray's idea to store my papers, pens and ink under my cot. Since the head of the cot was closest to the tent flap and my desk was just outside, I put my writing materials at that end."

"I see," Holmes said with a satisfied and approving nod. "Very orderly and logical."

"And just an old habit," Watson said with a smile.

"Yes. Well, I'll let you get freshened up, shall I?" Holmes said and turned to go, but paused again, looking back over his shoulder.

"What is it, Holmes?" Watson asked, the corner of his mouth curving up slightly.

"I was wondering why you put your spare pens on the lintel of your door," said Holmes.

Watson chuckled and sat down on his bed, ready to explain every detail of his old habits if it took all night. This was rather fun.


	9. The Adventure of the London Zoo

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls - An animal escapes from the London Zoo

* * *

><p>AN: Inspired in part by Domina Temporis' December 6 response which in its turn was inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Adventure of the London Zoo<strong>

"For what does he look, good Doctor?"

"You know as well as I, noble Gregson," I replied.

We stood paces away from Holmes as he closely inspected the grated cage door of the great ape house at the London Zoo. Gregson, the noble inspector, that morning had sent for Holmes when confronted with evidence he could make no sense of. Holmes had thought we would find ourselves at the door of the home of Mr. Joseph Mallory, murdered in the night e'en with doors and windows shut fast and bolted. The murder had been recounted in every newspaper and broadsheet. The boys cried it out in all its blood drenched horror from every street corner, waving their wares in front of gentleman and laborer alike as whore will wave to conquering soldier. And yet we found ourselves in the cramped and stinking cells of London Zoo, examining the supposed workings of more than commonly clever beast.

"I know not how the dumb beast did it, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. Stepping to the door he fingered the heavy chain. Ancient and rusted as it was, its strength remained. It had proved insufficient to its task, for the weakness of the traitor lock. "Look here, sir. Hairs."

Holmes ignored the inspector, finding the lock of greater interest. Therefore, desiring not to antagonize the inspector unduly, I stepped forward and examined his evidence. Between one link and another was pinched a reddish tuft of hair as unlike to that of a man's as a dog is unlike to a hen.

"No man left this," said I. "Clearly, this belonged to an ape. How came it to be upon these iron links do you think, Gregson?"

"Pinched from the brute's hand when it grasped the chains, Doctor," so said Gregson in full earnest and with agreeable tone.

"You know naught of apes, Gregson," spake Holmes, his voice derisive. He lifted the lock and upon his palm displayed it to the good inspector. "See you not what is here?"

"I see a lock, sir," Gregson said with asperity, but across his fine visage I observed a shadow of doubt pass. No more than a specter of irresolution, dissolving upon the instant of its birth. Unmistakable, however, for any who witnessed the moment.

"A lock it is, sir," Holmes agreed, and with a knowing look winked at me. "An iron lock. One of goodly craft, do you not agree?"

"I know not, Mr. Holmes," Gregson replied, casting his eyes over the thing's surface. "Iron it is and it would seem strong. But its provenance is unknown. Therefore its craft is unknown."

"Unknown to you. Not unknown to me." As I watched my friend turned the lumpish thing back and forth before our eyes, the better we might examine it. Upon his lips the thinnest satisfied smile. "I know its maker well. A goodly artisan who dwells with his honest wife above his shop on Fleet Street and has done so for some two and twenty years. A small man, I tell you, and yet his arms are like unto those Michelangelo gave his 'David'. Slim yet possessed of power. And like him, his product. No, good Gregson, this lock was never forced by the strength of one poor beast, though it be stronger than twice us three."

"You do not suggest the creature, crafty and dexterous though it be, learnt to pick a lock," laughed the noble inspector.

"I do not," laughed Holmes in friendly kind. "Nor do I say the beast had aught to do with this lock. Note you the shining iron that in the light of the sun gleams like fairest silver? Here where the hermaphrodite joined itself in unblessed union? And here where steel met iron and constrained it from its sin and o'ercame it in its righteous duty. A faithful lock it was, though now broken and servant to none save gravity and God, it gave up its purpose unwillingly."

"In that case, my good sir, the beast forced the lock with a bar of steel?" Gregson inquired, his confusion in strong contrast to his earlier surety.

"I said not," replied Holmes, his fingers closing over the insensible metal with sharp violence. "The beast had no part in the iron's constraint. A man this thing did. A man as mortal and frail as you or I, Inspector. And one with craft and the hint of guile."

"Holmes, you know more than you say," spake I. "Play us fairly. Speak and do not leave your friends in the dark without a candle. Illuminate our night."

"The brightest lantern will do no service to a man if he will not see, Watson!" cried Holmes o'er loud. "Follow me to the guilty cell. Follow and see what I have already guessed. And if you do not see, I promise, I shall endeavor to enlighten you both."

So saying he dragged upon the bars of the grate and the door swung open upon greased and well-kept hinges. Neither squeak nor groan did it give forth and this surprised me, for the rust of many years lay upon them, and the air of the passage, it was damp.

The cell of the ape we found in short order. It stood open and deserted, fouled straw upon its floor and the stink of the animal in the air. Beyond it through another iron grate could be seen the yard in which the ape had capered for the enjoyment and edification of the common crowds and the gentry of blessed London.

"Inspector, Doctor, in this cell can you see aught the beast might have used in place of key to work its will upon the lock of the door?" Holmes asked.

"I see nothing," said I, for in truth there was nothing.

"The lock was not opened with a key," Gregson vouched. "'Twas forced by the brawn of the ape, friend Holmes. The bolt in its house is bent and distorted. I say again, the lock was not opened with a key."

"Very good, Gregson," smiled Holmes approvingly. "And yet you are wrong. The ape had no part in forcing the lock. Look upon the floor. See you sign of the ape's tracks in the soiled gold of the straw? See you scuff or scratch upon the cold and hoary stone? I see none. Would you not agree, Gregson, noble and honest officer of the law, that the force to break the gripping of the bolt would require leverage in equal measure? Where is the sign of that, Gregson? Watson, where is the sign?"

"I see naught," said I.

"No sign is in evidence," did Gregson admit and so he sighed and paced, his head wagging in his perplexity. "How was it done, Holmes? How did the beast force the resolute iron?"

"Have you not heard me, Gregson?" demanded Holmes most hotly. "The ape had no part in gaining its liberty, save that it went from the cell and from the hall into the grounds of the zoo and beyond that into the streets of our fair city! Look here! Use your eyes if you know how! See you not this iron ring, its fastenings driven deep into the stone of the wall?"

"Verily, I do," growled the inspector, his face now clouding with the hot shadow of words that might burst forth in violent fury.

"Please, Holmes!" I interjected before harsh and unforgivable words could pass betwixt the twain. "You promised to enlighten us. Enlighten me, for I doubt not that there is some momentous thing you have divined."

"See the fresh crack below the anchoring spike?" Holmes asked, his eye upon Gregson. "See the boot print upon the wall? See the smoothing of the rough skin of the ring? Upon this metal was hung a hook."

"What hook?" asked I.

"Not of a fisherman, Watson," said Holmes and the eyes of noble Gregson did roll in their sockets with his frustration. With a quick, secret grin to me, Holmes spake on, "The hook of block and of tackle, Watson. Force mechanical was used to augment that of man's sinew and bone. The door was forced, the lock raped and rent. And the ape did then escape."

"To what purpose?" Gregson demanded, derisive mirth coloring his words. "Was it a thief that came in the night to steal away this brute beast? This beast of the African jungle that once roamed freely among the branches and trunks. The beast reckoned many times the strength of a man. To steal such a creature, long in tooth and talon, seems folly to me, for would not it pounce and drive a man's soul to Heaven, or more likely Hell in this case of criminal sin, damned by both holy church and noble state?"

"I dare say you can tell a hawk from a handsaw, Gregson," Holmes replied in even tone. "I think, though, you mistake a herring for a crime."

"I know not what you mean, Mr. Holmes," admitted noble Gregson.

"Then I bid you, with all my heart and full measure of good will, look to your Poe and guard your windows well," Holmes told him. "The murderer of Mr. Joseph Mallory, I warrant, has read his Poe, of brilliant Dupin and the Rue Morgue. Though he knows nothing more of the gentle and much maligned Orangutan than do you. The beast comes not from Africa, honest Gregson. South East Asia is the land it calls home. Look you to the parks, but send not your constables with rifles and clubs and warlike implements. Let not their heads be broken nor the unfortunate beast's blood be spilled in needless marshal strife! Rather, into a fruit place a sedative and by nightfall you may have your escapee at no risk to the lives of your valiant men."

"What know you of the murder of the honorable Joseph Mallory, good friend Holmes?" asked Gregson, most subdued. "Humbly, I ask your aid on behalf of the venerable Yard, sir. How does this cell and these iron locks relate to his horrid and bloody death? The scene in the bedroom, I have heard, is such as to rival the worst of he who wore the leather apron and stole away woman's womb. Tell me, I do beg."

"I know only what is reported in the papers we received from their printers this morn ere we were summoned hence," replied my friend, his tone matching the honor shown him. "Doors locked from within and on the ground floor, windows undisturbed. Upon the second floor where the master slept, the window was found smashed into so many shards of glittering glass. The servants in their attic rooms heard nothing to disturb their nightly slumbers until their master, in his desperation and agony, screamed out in torment and fear. I tell you, honest Gregson, tis no dumb brute did that deed. A beast of cunning, descended from murderous Cain, struck down the honorable Mallory."

"And who is this Poe and who this Dupin?" noble Gregson asked.

"Poe is a corpse," said Holmes. "Dupin is a fiction. Know you not the tale? Get thee to a library, sir. Ask after them there. To Baker Street we return, Gregson. Call upon me when the Rue Morgue is familiar to you. I will help where I may!"

Upon his heel Holmes did then spin and to the grated door and fresher air he strode.

"Fare you well, noble Gregson," said I, shaking the inspector by the hand in manly fashion.

"Fare you well also, good Doctor," replied the honest man, servant of the People. "I will call this evening and with me I shall bring Lestrade of good reputation."

"Welcome you will both be," I promised and we shook again.

Thence from the stinking house of apes Holmes and I returned to our lodgings, there to wash the smell from our persons and to partake of tobacco and good English tea. And in time, in company with noble Gregson and reputable Lestrade, we wove a net to capture the damned murderer whose vengeful spite drove him to kill with terrible violence a man of worth.

* * *

><p>AN: I was watching Kenneth Branagh's 1996 production of 'Hamlet' while writing this. It was a lot of fun, but it was also a lot of work.<p> 


	10. The Case of the Fourth Universe

Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead - Write Holmes and Watson into a different time period (and don't just copy from BBC Sherlock, Elementary or Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century!) - could be anything from the Stone Age to the distant future.

* * *

><p>AN: You have got to be kidding me.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Case of the Fourth Universe<strong>

Dr. John Hamish Watson didn't know what to think. Neither did anyone else in the room, from the looks on their faces. He and Holmes had just stepped through what they had a moment before been sure was the door to their flat in 221B Baker Street. They now stood in a very different room, though somehow it felt familiar.

"Either we're in the wrong place or Mycroft did some serious renovation," said the rather attractive Asian woman. She was most striking, but dressed in an entirely scandalous fashion. She wore trousers!

"Mycroft?" the tall, austere and unnaturally quiet man in the long dark coat asked. "Mycroft Holmes?"

"My brother, yes," replied the young man with the nervously darting eyes who was in need of a shave. He'd entered the room slightly ahead of the Asian woman complaining of how the key had jammed in the lock and saying something about needing to get better ones installed.

"Look here," the short man said stepping forward. "Who are you people and just what did you do to our flat?"

"Your flat?" asked the unshaven man.

"John, it's not our flat," said the tall man in the dark coat. He was looking around in a very familiar fashion. "The doors are all wrong. The windows are wrong. This cannot be our flat."

"And it is not ours, either," said Sherlock Holmes, speaking for the first time.

"Indeed, it is not," agreed Watson emphatically.

"It's not mine, either," said the unshaven man.

"Look," the Asian woman said. "Who are you people?"

"I asked first," the short man said, though not in a confrontational way.

"Fine," the Asian woman said, raising her hands in a placatory manner. "I'm Joan Watson and this is my… friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"What?" demanded the short man.

"John," growled the tall man in the dark coat.

"Sherlock! This is some prank your brother is playing on us!" the short man shot back.

"Your name is also Sherlock?" the unshaven man asked and peered closer at the man in the dark coat.

"Yes," said the man. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Interesting," murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"What about you two?" asked the Asian woman. "You look like you just stepped off a sound stage for Downton Abbey."

"I know not of what you speak, madam," said Holmes and looked more closely at her and then turned his keen gaze on the short man who seemed so aggravated and confused. "Your name is John Watson, is it not?"

"Yes," the short man replied and did a double take, glancing from Holmes' feet up to the top of his head twice before crossing his arms and pressing his mouth shut.

Everyone went back to staring at each other in silence for a long moment and then the tall man in the dark coat stepped closer to Holmes and Watson, his eyes traveling over them in a way Watson knew well.

"These are not costumes," the tall man said when his inspection was complete.

"What, they're wearing antique clothing or something?" the short John Watson asked.

"No," said the unshaven Holmes. "It's fairly new. Hand stitching combined with some machine stitches."

"The cut is distinctly Victorian in character," added the Holmes of the dark coat. He turned his gaze hard upon the other pair. "You were born in England, but you've been living in the United States for some time. In New York. And you, miss, are a native of that city. Your parents are both Chinese. I'd say you're first generation."

"And you're a Londoner," rejoined the unshaven Holmes. "Your companion there is a doctor and served in Afghanistan."

"In what regiment?" Watson asked immediately.

"What? oh... The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," replied the shorter Watson.

"I'll be damned," Watson swore softly and very much out of character.

"What's wrong with that?" the shorter Watson demanded, a little pridefully.

"Nothing," said Watson and stumbled to a seat. "It was my regiment when we fought there. I arrived too late. They'd already been shipped off at the outbreak of the war. I was sent on to Kandahar where I was attached to the Berkshires."

"You?" the shorter Watson asked disbelievingly. He took a step forward across the Persian rug and looked with confusion and concern on the slightly older man. "You fought in Afghanistan?"

"I was wounded at the battle of Maiwand," Watson said and looked up into the younger man's eyes. "I still carry the jezail bullet that nearly took my life. The surgeons couldn't remove it from my shoulder without doing greater damage. I was wounded in the leg, also."

"Maiwand?" The short Watson stared incredulously at Watson. "Maiwand?"

Short Watson shook his finger in Watson's direction, his smile turning cynical.

"I'll say when you commit to a part, you really commit to a part," he said. "You sound like you believe it."

"Watson?" the tall Holmes asked.

"Sherlock, that battle was fought in the nineteenth century!"

"And what century, pray tell, is this?" Homes asked, coolly.

The four strangers turned to look at him with variously speculative and disbelieving expressions.

"I look about this room and many things are familiar," Holmes went on as if explaining himself. "I see correspondence pinned to the mantelpiece with a jackknife. I see a Persian slipper with tobacco in it. I see over there a table with chemical apparatus on it. The shelves of books so similar to my own and yet very different. V.R. in bullet pocks. So many things are familiar and yet there are things that are strange. I presume this is a telephone, though, I have never seen a model of this kind and the ones I have seen were in government offices or the private homes of the very wealthy."

"Most of these things look like they come from the thirties," said the woman.

"Thirties?" Holmes asked her politely.

"The nineteen thirties," she explained and narrowed her eyes on him in a calculating manner. "Your clothes look like late Victorian Era."

"Why of course they are," Holmes replied with a smile. "I just purchased this suit three months ago."

"At an antique shop?" she asked.

"Cohan and Dunwood," said Holmes. "My haberdashers."

"You're name is also Sherlock Holmes and this man in the chair is named Dr. John Watson," the tall Holmes stated emphatically. "You are Joan Watson and you are Sherlock Holmes, both living in New York and in London on a visit for some reason of importance."

"And you are Sherlock Holmes and that is your Dr. John Watson and the two of you live here in London as flat mates," the unshaven Holmes said with glinting eyes. "You are a consulting detective and the doctor is your… partner."

"I'm not gay," short Watson sighed.

"Holmes, what is going on?" Watson asked looking around again.

"I do not know, dear fellow, but I think our friends here are coming to it," Holmes said and found a decanter of brandy. He poured a measure into a snifter and handed it to his friend.

"Sherlock, this is nuts," Joan said and walked over to look out the window. "Holy shit!"

The four men who were standing rushed to her side and peered through the glass. Out on the street, motor cars from the late twenties and early thirties were trundling by below. A bobby in an old fashioned uniform strolled along twirling his baton and whistling a jaunty tune. A paper boy called to passersby. Men and women in suits and dresses in the fashions of the early twentieth century strolled along on business of their own.

"It looks like a Hollywood back lot," Joan breathed into the uneasy silence.

"That smell is no special effect," the unshaven Holmes observed.

"These motor cars are quite advanced," Holmes said. "Very sleek looking. Very powerful. Much better looking than any of the clunking and clattering contraptions I ever saw."

"They're nearly a hundred years out of date," shorter Watson said, shaking his head.

"Incredible," Sherlock said.

Joan looked up at him and smiled.

"You've got a nice voice," she said.

"What?" Sherlock said and shot her an uncertain look. "Oh. Um… Thank you."

They all stared at the street below but Watson was busy looking at a copy of the Times.

"Holmes, look at the date on this," Watson said and held up the paper for his friend. The unshaven Sherlock snatched it from his fingers before Holmes could take it.

"7 July 1930," he read. "Who is this Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the headline is about?"

"He wrote those stories about Brigadier Girard," John said instantly. "I read them when I was a boy."

"He wrote the 'Lost World', too," Joan said and took the paper from unshaven Sherlock to glance over the article.

"I thought that was Michael Crichton," unshaven Sherlock said.

"He did too, but Doyle wrote one a long time ago," Joan said and passed the paper to Holmes who accepted it absently. His eyes were unfocussed as he continued to gaze out of the window.

"Can you prove you are Sherlock Holmes?" asked Sherlock of the unshaven Sherlock.

"Can you?" retorted unshaven Sherlock.

"Touché" said Sherlock and turned away to examine the mantelpiece. He picked up a large pipe from the rack and reached into the Persian slipper, fishing out some tobacco to load it.

"I can prove who I am," Joan said and dug in her purse, coming out with a thick wallet. She unsnapped the clasp and held her New York driver's license out to John. "See? That's really me. I'm Joan Watson."

"Yeah," agree John and produced his own driver's license. "John H. Watson. Me with a moustache. I shaved it off."

They turned to Watson as he sat finishing his brandy and debating if another might do him good.

"What about you?" Joan asked.

"I beg your pardon, miss?" he asked, uncertain what they were wanting.

"Have you got any form of I.D.?" John asked patiently.

"I.D.?" Watson shook his head, still not understanding.

"They mean a form of identification," Holmes told him. "Berth records and the like."

"I suppose if I were home I could fetch you a copy of my discharge papers, miss," said John apologetically. "But I'm not in the habit of carrying such things on my person. I have a calling card, if that will do."

Joan took it and read the text:

Dr. J. H. Watson

Surgeon

221B Baker Street

London

"May I see that?" asked Sherlock, puffing out a cloud of rich grey smoke. He glanced over the card, giving it a sniff and a flick and even tore the corner off. "Strong scent of tobacco. Embossed. Good quality paper with a high rag content. Oil based ink. Very expensive."

"Sherlock, why are you smoking?" John demanded in a disapproving tone.

"Because I don't have any patches and the residents of this flat clearly will not mind," Sherlock replied.

"That's a good idea, I think," Watson said and took out his own pipe and tobacco.

"Yes," agreed Holmes.

"Oh god," John sighed and found himself a seat.

"Gentlemen," said unshaven Sherlock. "Are we three in agreement that we are each Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock and Holmes glanced at each other and then back to unshaven Sherlock and nodded.

"And can you three agree that each of you is Dr. Watson?"

"Are you a doctor, young lady?" asked Watson.

"Formerly a surgeon, by the look of her hands," Holmes told him and lit his pipe.

"I can accept that she is, but him?" John said, pointing at Watson.

"And why not me, sir?" Watson demanded, rising to his not inconsiderable full height.

"Because you're dressed like you should be playing a role in 'A Christmas Carol'!" John snapped, not backing down.

"John, he is Dr. John H. Watson," Sherlock said firmly.

"How can you say that?" John demanded.

"The cut of their clothes," Sherlock said easily. "The smell. The way they move. The way they speak. They are genuine."

"The smell?" asked Watson, unsure if he should be offended.

"You're obviously from a time before deodorant, Doctor," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Is he always that rude?" Joan asked John.

"You have no idea," John replied.

"I think I do," she said and shot a meaningful look at unshaven Sherlock.

"Yeah," John shrugged. "Maybe you do."

"Getting back to the point," unshaven Sherlock interrupted. "I think we are currently experiencing something highly improbable."

"Stating the obvious," Sherlock growled and puffed out another cloud of smoke.

"I sometimes find it useful to state the obvious," Holmes said and began examining the shelves of commonplace books. "We each came through different doors to arrive here. Where were you all going?"

"To our flat," John said.

"To my old rooms," unshaven Sherlock said.

"We, ourselves, were returning to our rooms," Holmes said and pulled out the volume labeled M. "We had just returned from assisting Inspector Lestrade with a case. A man was breaking into people's houses and absconding with busts of Napoleon only to smash them."

"Were the pieces scattered and trampled?" asked unshaven Sherlock.

"No," Holmes replied finding the entry he was looking for. "There were signs he was looking for something."

"Did you say Lestrade?" John asked.

"You know the good inspector?" Watson asked.

"I don't know that I would call him good," Sherlock snorted.

"He's better than most," unshaven Sherlock put in.

"Ours is the best of a bad lot," Holmes told them. "Know you also a Moriarty?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his attention suddenly focused entirely on Holmes.

"As do I," unshaven Sherlock said.

"As do the residents of this flat." Holmes held up the book and showed them.

"What's this mean?" Joan asked, seeing the expressions on the three detectives' faces.

"It is only more evidence," Holmes said. "It is not a conclusion."

"I think I'm going to have some brandy," said John.

"Me too," Joan said and followed him to the decanter.

"I'll join you," said Watson, retrieving his snifter from the little table.

The Holmeses began to talk animatedly, trying to understand what had brought them all to this place and for what reason.

"I don't know about you two, but I don't care so much about how we got here," Joan said and sipped her brandy. It was quite good and she drank a little more.

"I'm more interested in getting home," John agreed.

"Yes," said Watson. "How's the question."

"We all came in from different doorways," said Joan, glancing around the room.

"Yes, but Holmes and I were going through the door to our flat." Watson pointed to the main door leading out into the rest of the house.

"We were, too," John said and drank more brandy.

"Us too," Joan said. "But Sherlock and I came through that door. It looks like it leads to a bedroom. And you and your partner came from that one."

"Looks like it goes upstairs or something," John said. "And, just to be clear, Sherlock and I are partners in solving crimes."

"Okay," she said and shrugged. "And Victorian Dr. Watson, you and your Sherlock came through that doorway."

"Miss… Doctor, in my day we do not call other gentlemen by their first names," Watson corrected her. "You are correct, though. The doorway gives on to a closet, I believe."

"What good does that do us?" John asked with another sip of his brandy.

"Have you ever heard of String Theory?" Joan asked.

"Sure,' said John with a nod. "Multiple universes and all that."

"String Theory? Multiple universes?" Watson wondered. This was all very confusing.

"Some physicists think there are as many universes as there are possibilities," Joan explained. "They all exist side by side. A few of those physicists think the universes sometimes bump up against each other."

"Right!" John put in. "When they do that things can transfer from one universe to another!"

"I don't follow you," Watson said and poured more brandy for each of them.

"Well, let's say there are three universes like there are three brandy snifters," Joan went on and put her snifter next to Watson's. John, in support of her, touched his snifter to both of theirs. "Now most of the time nothing happens because the walls between the universes are strong and nothing can pass through them, like no brandy can pass through this glass."

"I understand," said Watson. Holmes had derided him for reading Jules Verne's scientific romances, but now they were paying off.

"Sometimes, though, something happens and a little from one universe spills into another like brandy spilling from my glass into yours or John's," she continued.

"I see," said Watson. "But Holmes and I did not spill into your universe, nor John's."

"He's right," said John and drank from his glass. "We all spilled into a universe from the nineteen thirties."

"Where, presumably, another Holmes lives," Joan finished for them.

"How does this help?" John asked and looked over at the three intensely arguing Holmeses. "I don't think they're getting anywhere."

"What if we all went back out the doors we came through?" Joan asked.

"It can't be that simple," John said.

Watson frowned and considered a moment. He took the brandy decanter and very carefully poured a few drops from his snifter back into it.

"Alright," John nodded. "Don't have anything to lose, really."

"What if it kills us?" Joan wondered. "Or takes us somewhere else?"

"I'm more concerned about it doing nothing at all," Watson said. "What if Holmes and I open that door and walk into a closet? There is a young lady I am very much interested in and would not wish to stay here if it can be helped."

John pinched his mouth shut and gave a nod. "I'll risk it."

"Me too, I guess," agreed Joan. "With everything that's getting ready to happen in the next few years. I don't really want to be around to live through the Blitz."

"Granddad lived through Normandy," John said and glanced out the window. "It's really something, isn't it?"

"Not much changed from my time," Watson said. "The air seems less thick. Can't say that's a bad thing. What do you mean by the Blitz?"

"Oh," Joan looked uncertain and glanced at John. He shrugged and then shook his head. "I don't think I should tell you. It might change something. Maybe we couldn't get home if I do."

"I see," Watson said and frowned in thought. "You may be right."

"How do we tell them?" John asked. "I doubt Sherlock will listen to me."

"Holmes will listen to me, but I don't know that he will agree," said Watson.

"I'll tell them," Joan said. "You two, just back me up."

"Watsons," called unshaven Sherlock. "We have it!"

"Have what?" asked Joan dubiously.

"The way home, Doctor," Holmes said mildly.

"If it works," Sherlock purred, skepticism dripping from his words.

"You agreed it is worth a try," unshaven Sherlock said.

"That doesn't mean I believe it will work," Sherlock snorted.

"Let us test the theory," said Holmes.

"What do you want to do?" Joan cut in before they could start debating again.

"Each pair of Holmeses and Watsons will walk back out the door they entered this room through," unshaven Sherlock said.

"That seems the likeliest way to return home for each of us," Holmes said.

"If it doesn't work, we return to discuss the matter further," Sherlock put in.

Joan glanced meaningfully at her counterparts and they shared a brief smile.

The three pairs wished each other luck and then simultaneously stepped back through the doors they had entered by. Joan and Sherlock found themselves on the landing outside his old rooms. Holmes and Watson blinked around at the familiar wallpaper of the stairwell of 221B under the glow of gas lamps. And Sherlock and John stood at the top of the steps leading up to the flat above Mrs. Hudson's.

Back in the room they had all just left two men entered through the front door. A tall, lean man with a hawk's nose and a fedora hat and a portly, older gentleman walking with a cane and smiling bemusedly at a joke only he had heard.

"Watson!" said the hawk-nosed man. "Someone has been here!"

"What's that?" Watson asked, blinking around. "By Jove! You're right Holmes! There's smoke in the air!"

"And they've been at the brandy!" said Holmes, hurrying to the decanter. "Three glasses!"

"Look, Holmes!" Watson cried in surprise. "They left your M volume out."

"M?" Holmes said archly. "Morgan the poisoner. Moran and Meridew. But look here, old friend. M for Moriarty."

"Moriarty, Holmes?" Watson said in alarm. "I thought he was dead."

"As did I," Holmes said staring off into the middle distance. "It seems he may be back."

"Then it's a good thing we have you, old friend," said Watson staunchly.

"And a good thing I have you, Watson," said Holmes and took his friend by the hand.

**The End**


	11. A Day in the Life of Billy the Page

Prompt from Garonne – exhaustion

* * *

><p><strong>A Day in the Life of Billy the Page<strong>

Some days my life is easy. I wake up, scrub behind my ears, comb my hair, put on my jacket and cap and go upstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson feeds me a good breakfast and then we attend to the little things her tenants require. On Tuesdays she usually sends me down to the grocers with a list. Those are good days. Mrs. Bridges always has a nice word for me and sometimes she gives me a sweet. I was friends with her son, Tommy, before he died of a fever and she misses him something terrible.

Some days my life isn't quite as easy. Usually those are in spring and summer. Mrs. Hudson has me move things around in the attic or the cellar. She says it's important to inspect what you've got stored so that things don't get lost or broken. Some of the things she has I think should be lost or broken or both. I mean, what does she need with an African mask or a Viking helmet? And she never uses her bicycle. I don't even know how she got it into the cellar in the first place.

There are days my life is positively exciting. Those always involve Mr. Holmes, one way or another.

"Here's the morning post, Mrs. Hudson," I say returning to the kitchen from the front door with a handful of envelopes. "Another letter for you from that Professor Challenger, ma'am."

"Oh?" she says with a pleased smile. "I wonder what George is up to now."

Mrs. Hudson takes the stack of letters from me and quickly sorts through them. She sets aside her own correspondence and a pair of envelopes for Wynonna, the parlor maid, then hands the rest back to me.

"For Mr. Holmes and the doctor," she tells me. "Tell them I'll have cold mutton for their lunch. Mr. Holmes will frown at that, but Dr. Watson likes it very much and I can't please both of them all of the time. Go on, Billy."

"Yes, ma'am," I say and take the mail up to the gentlemen's flat.

"It's open," calls Mr. Holmes when I knock.

"Morning post, Mr. Holmes," I tell him. I cross the room to his desk. "Good morning Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson said she'll have cold mutton for your luncheon, sirs."

"Again?" Mr. Holmes grumbles and leans forward to look into his microscope. "Did we not just eat cold mutton?"

"No, Holmes," the doctor says and gives me a smile and a wink as he hands me a farthing. "Last week, Monday, as I recall. That's ten days."

"All too soon for my taste," Mr. Holmes says, adjusting a dial on the side of his instrument.

"Is there anything you need, sirs?" I ask, curious to know what Mr. Holmes is up to, but I know better than to ask.

"Yes, Billy," he says without looking up. From the table next to his microscope he lifts a folded piece of foolscap and holds it out in my direction. "Take this down to the chemist for me, will you? He'll collect everything. Just be a good lad and bring it all to me as quick as you can."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," I tell him and take the list. I'm glad to do it. Getting out of the house, even in winter is better than being cooped up all day. "Anything for you, Doctor?"

"Not right now," he says, looking through his letters. "I'll have a letter for the post this afternoon. Thank you, Billy."

"Very good, sir," I say and off I go down the stairs. I stop long enough to tell Mrs. Hudson where I'm going and she reminds me to wear my muffler and coat. She doesn't want me catching a cold or a cough.

The weather is colder today than it was yesterday, but at least the sun is poking through the clouds. Snow's ankle deep and I'm glad for the new shoes Mrs. Hudson bought me in October. I'd outgrown the old ones anyway. Baker Street in winter is a sight to see. In any other season it's quite nice, but winter means snow and ice sickles and there's no fog hanging in the air. Out of curiosity I give a glance at the list Mr. Holmes gave me. None of it makes any sense. His writing is easy enough to read, but the words might as well be in Greek. I shrug and tuck it back into my pocket just in time for a snowball to smack me in the back. I don't even think about it. I drop down, scoop snow and pack it even as I'm turning. Another ball flies by my head as I come around and throw. Wiggins, laughs as he dodges aside. What he's doing on Baker Street this time of day, I don't know, but I'm not letting him get away with blind siding me. I throw two more snowballs, finally catching him in the chest and we both laugh as we come together.

"Morning, Billy," says Wiggins, still grinning.

"Morning," I say.

"What are you up to?" he asks as he falls into step next to me.

"An errand for Mr. Holmes," I tell him and show him the note.

"Up to something, is he?" Wiggins asks. "If he needs me, I'm available."

"I'll tell him," I say and then notice something. "Why aren't you wearing the shoes I gave you?"

"They didn't fit," he says easily. "I gave them to Little Lou. He needed a new pair more 'n I do. These'll be good for a while yet."

I glance down and see the side busted out of one and the other's sole is held on with a rag.

"Why don't you ask Reverend Michaels?" I ask. "He'll get you a pair."

"Run me off the last time I went there," Wiggins says.

I glance at him, but don't ask why. Wiggins probably had his hand in the poor box again. I'll never understand why that's a problem. Wiggins is poor, after all. Isn't that why the box is there?

"I'll see what I can do," I tell him. "Christmas is coming. Maybe I can work out something with the doctor."

"Alright," Wiggins says with a smile. "Thanks, Billy. Got to run now. Old Pinky's up ahead and he don't like me."

Pinky is Constable Pinkerly. He's not a bad sort, for a copper, but Wiggins got on his bad side somehow.

"See you later," I say as he turns into an alley. "Will you be in your usual spot?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'm going by Big Molly's for some soup and then I'll be over there after that."

"Right," I say and keep walking.

Pinky eyes me hard as I pass, but I smile and tip my hat. He frowns, but gives me a nod. I'm not on his list. I don't know for sure how he makes his list. All I know is he tells certain boys they're on it. Never told me I was so I guess I'm not on it. I wonder if he really has a list or if he just says he does. Doesn't matter, I suppose. I'm going to stay off it if I can.

Mr. Thornton, the chemist, greets me with his usual grin. He knows why I'm there. Mr. Holmes has an account he pays off at the end of every month. He always pays in cash and he almost always pays a lot. One month the total was twenty pounds! I can't imagine having twenty pounds all at once. Maybe one day. I've been saving a little of my money. Most of it goes to help my dad take care of the family, but I have six pounds and three pence, plus the farthing Dr. Watson gave me, I suppose. I want to set aside enough to buy a cab and make my way as a hackee. Dr. Watson suggested I join the army. He says I would make a very good orderly and that he still has friends who could arrange it. I don't know. Maybe I will, but I think I'd like to drive a cab.

"How's Mrs. Hudson these days?" asks Mr. Thornton as he begins setting the items on Mr. Holmes' list on his counter.

"She's well, sir," I tell him and look at a display of blue bottles with a picture of a smiling baby on their labels. Powdered milk. How could you make milk into a powder?

"I'll have to go to the back for this one," says Mr. Thornton with a frown. "Back in a minute, Billy. I'll bring you a box to carry it all, too."

"Thanks, Mr. Thornton," I say. Powdered milk? Couldn't drink it. Probably tastes terrible that way, too.

Mr. Thornton closes up the box and gives me a pat on the head and I'm off back to 221B. Sun isn't shining now. Clouds are getting thicker and it looks like we might get more snow, but the wind has died down to nothing and it doesn't feel any colder. I march on and begin whistling. It's a good day to be out, even if it does start snowing again.

Mr. Holmes hands me two farthings when I deliver the box. Before I get to the door he stops me.

"Billy, could you run this to the telegraph office for me?" he asks.

"Should I wait for a reply, sir?"

"No," he says. "It may take some time for Professor Windgate to find what I need. Take this and you may keep whatever is left."

"Thank you, sir!" I say, accepting the coins. Today is really looking up.

The trip to the telegraph office doesn't take long, but I have to wait in line while an older gentleman with mutton chops sends a rather long message. I keep quiet. There's no sense in trying to rush things along. If I weren't here, I'd be shoveling coal or sweeping out a carpet or something. Mrs. Hudson doesn't let me stand idle, not when there is room and board to be earned. It's nearly an hour before I get back to Backer Street and when I do Dr. Watson has an errand he needs me to run.

Back to the chemists. Mr. Thornton frowns over Dr. Watson's list and asks me to wait while he puts it all together. This time he wraps the bottles and tins in brown paper and sends me off with another pat on the head. I've just come through the door when Mr. Holmes calls down to me.

"Billy," he calls without looking from his door.

"I sent him on an errand, Holmes," the doctor says from deeper in their rooms.

"Confound it!" Mr. Holmes grumbles. "I need him. When will…"

"I'm here, Mr. Holmes," I call up to him. Mrs. Hudson looks out of her door and frowns at the noise we're making. She doesn't like disturbances in her home. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

She rolls her eyes and shuts her door. I trot up the stairs, all seventeen of them, and step into the gentlemen's flat.

"Here's your package, Watson," Mr. Holmes says, taking the bundle from me and passing it to his friend. "Billy, I need you to find Wiggins. I need him immediately."

"Yes, sir," I say and take another farthing for my trouble. "Thank you, sir"

"Good lad," he says with a smile. "Be quick about it."

Down the stairs I go again and back out into the snow. More is starting to fall. Big flakes this time, not like last night. I pull my muffler tighter to keep the snow off my neck and trudge along quickly. My stomach growls, but I'll have to wait until I get back before I can eat, unless Big Molly has something for me. She sometimes does. Six children and her husband makes a good living at Packer's Warehouse. She seems to look out for everyone, but she doesn't always have time for us that are better off. Can't blame her, though. Money only goes so far.

"I don't know where he went when he left here," Big Molly tells me. "You know Wiggins. He's always up to something."

"Yes ma'am," I say and tip my hat. "I'll find him. Thanks anyway."

Down her steps I go and off toward Marylebone Road. Wiggins will be working the passersby for change. He is always up to something and that's the best place for him in the mornings.

"Wiggins!" I call from across the road and wave. He looks up and comes dodging through traffic. Drivers yell and shout at him, but he waves them off, throwing a quick V at one old prat that scolds him.

"Does Mr. Holmes need me?" he asks eagerly.

"Right away," I tell him and we run off back to Baker Street.

I have to pull Wiggins to a stop before he barges through the front door. Mrs. Hudson has a soft place for my friend because all the things he and the Irregulars have done for her tenants, but she doesn't like them just coming and going as they please. Black Will once knocked over a vase she rather liked and she's never forgiven him for it. I don't know who Ming was, but it belonged to him. I guess Mrs. Hudson was just holding onto it and maybe she will be in trouble when he ask after it.

"Well done, Billy," Mr. Holmes tells me and invites Wiggins in. Before the door closes the doctor calls me in too.

"Mr. Thornton didn't have everything I need," he tells me. "Will you take this list over to Dobson's and collect the rest of it? If he doesn't have everything, go to Bernhard's for the remainder. His prices are very high, but I really do need these items. I shouldn't have let my stocks get so low."

"Of course, Doctor," I say and accept the new list.

Mr. Dobson eyes me suspiciously the whole time I'm waiting. I don't take it personal. He eyes every boy that way. As it turns out I have to make the long trip to Bernhard's shop. Mr. Dobson only had three items Dr. Watson wanted. It's past noon by the time I leave Bernhard's and my stomach is rumbling.

"Hope Mrs' Hudson has something good for me," I say aloud as I trudge through the deepening snow. My toes are going numb and my nose is very cold. I grin, remembering what my mum always says. "Jack Frost nipping at your nose."

I kick the snow off my shoes again when I get to the top step outside the house and know I'll need to sweep the steps again. First I go up to deliver the doctor's package.

"Billy," says Mr. Holmes as I turn for the door, pocketing another two pence from the doctor. "This is very important. I need you to hand deliver this box to Inspector Broadstreet. He's expecting it. Put it in his hands. No one else is to touch it. Understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," I say, less enthusiastic than before. "Do I have time to sweep the steps?"

"No," he says firmly. "This is more important than accumulating snow. He may have a message for me. Wait for it if he does."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," I say and turn to go. As the door is closing I here Dr. Watson say something.

"That boy's looking a little fagged, Holmes."

"He's young. He has the strength of a myrmidon," says Mr. Holmes and closes the door.

Fagged? I'll say! I'm bloody tired and hungry. But I have coins in my pockets and that's not a bad thing.

"Are you going out again, Billy?" Wynonna asks, seeing me pass by the big sitting room.

"Another errand for Mr. Holmes," I tell her.

"Could you stop by the news stand and see if the 'Strand' has its new edition out?" she asks and gives me that smile of hers. She really is so much prettier than Delilah was.

"I will," I assure her.

"You're a dear," she says and pinches my cheek.

All the way to Inspector Broadstreet's office I find myself smiling, thinking about Wynonna's smile. It makes the trip a little faster for me, but standing there in the hallway, waiting for the inspector to examine the contents of Mr. Holmes little box is trying. At least my toes have a chance to warm up.

"Is this all he sent me?" the inspector demands, stepping out of his door.

"It's all he gave me, sir," I tell him.

"I don't know what good this is supposed to do me," he grumbles. "Tell Mr. Holmes I'll come by this afternoon around three. I really don't know what he thought this would be good for. I really don't."

He slams his door in my face and I stick out my tongue before walking past a tall sergeant who is grinning down at me.

"Careful o' that, sonny," the sergeant says and knocks on the inspector's door.

I pay for the latest edition of the 'Strand' and continue home. My feet are cold by the time I get there and my stomach is loudly reminding me that I haven't had anything since breakfast. Cold mutton sandwiches and a hot cup of chocolate are sounding good.

"Thank you, Billy," Wynonna says when I give her the magazine. "I'll pay you later."

"Oh, that's alright," I say.

"Don't be silly," she says. "Can't go spending your money on me."

I climb the stairs again and the door opens with Dr. Watson frowning at something in his hand.

"Oh. Billy," he says. "I was just going to call down for you. Dobson sent the wrong thing. I can't use this powder. Could you take it back and get the right one?"

"As soon as I tell Mr. Holmes what the inspector told me, sir," I say and step past the doctor. Mr. Holmes is in his chair by the fire, smoking. I tell him the inspector will be visiting at three.

"Imbecile," Mr. Holmes grumbles. "I suppose I should have expected it. Thank you, Billy."

"You're welcome, sir," I puff and then accept the powder from the doctor.

"If Dobson doesn't have the right one," he says.

"Go to Bernhard's?" I ask.

"That's right," says Dr. Watson with a grin. "Good lad."

"Do I have time to sweep the steps first, Doctor?" I ask. "The snow is starting to get deep."

"Yes. I think so. It's not an emergency," he says and shuts the door.

Before I've finished with steps, Mrs. Hudson finds me and asks that I run to the market for a tin of salt. She's out and wants it for some stew or other. I tell her I need to run to Dobson's and she says not to buy the salt from him. He charges too much.

It's nearly three by the time I return to the house and my stomach has stopped growling. Wiggins comes dashing up just as I get to the top step and we go in together.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks.

"I've been in and out all day," I explain. "Wipe your feet."

"Sorry, Billy," he apologizes and wipes the snow from his shoes. "You look tired."

"I am," I grumble. "Come on. Mr. Holmes will want to get rid of you as soon as he can. Inspector Broadstreet is coming soon."

I deliver the powder to Dr. Watson and Wiggins reports to Mr. Holmes as I'm leaving. I just get to the bottom of the stairs when Wiggins storms down them and tells me Mr. Holmes needs me. He goes out the front door and I turn to climb the steps again.

"Billy, there is a book Professor Windgate has agreed to lend me," he says. "Run over to the university and fetch it for me, will you?"

"Which university, Mr. Holmes?" I ask. There are several.

"Regents," he says. "It isn't that far."

"Right away, sir?" I ask.

"Right away, Billy," he says a little impatiently. "I must have it right away. A man's life depends on it."

That is a whole different matter. I turn and go down the steps as quick as I can. My burst of energy doesn't last long. By the time I reach the university I'm cold to the bone and can't get any more heat out of my coat. I ask at the reception desk for Professor Windgate and wait until a page brings the book wrapped in brown paper. He actually makes me sign for it.

Back at Baker Street I climb the stairs again and knock on the door, hardly able to lift my arm to do it. Mr. Holmes opens the door and I give him the book.

"Thank you, Billy," he says and is about to turn away, but pauses to look closely at me. I'm not sure what happens next, but I hear him call for the doctor and then I'm on the floor. Everything goes grey and then black.

"He's coming round now, Mrs. Hudson," Dr. Watson says from above me.

"Well I don't know what you gentlemen were thinking," she says in a scolding voice. "If this boy catches cold, I'm blaming you both."

"I don't think he'll catch cold," the doctor tells her. "There now, Billy. Feeling better?"

"Yes, Doctor," I say and try to sit up. They've put me on their sofa near the fire and it feels good to be getting warm. Mr. Holmes is pacing in front of the window and casting… worried (?) looks my way.

"He doesn't look much better," Mrs. Hudson says a little angrily. "Sending him on all those errands in this weather! What were you gentlemen thinking?"

"He's just exhausted, Mrs. Hudson," the doctor assures her absently as he looks into my eyes one at a time. "I think some rest and some food are in order. He should be right as rain in the morning."

"I've a mind to serve him your supper," she grouses as she helps me to my feet. My head swims. "And it will be cabbage stew tomorrow!"

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson exchange a look, but neither says anything."

Mrs. Hudson puts me in her spare bed and serves me hot soup, a baked potato and a pork chop. The food doesn't last long. I've never tasted anything so good. She fusses over me a little when I've eaten and stokes up the fire a bit.

"May I read to him, Mrs. Hudson?" Wynonna asks from the doorway.

"I suppose so," Mrs. Hudson allows. "Don't tax him too much, though. He has a big day ahead of him tomorrow."

I fall asleep halfway through the story Wynonna is reading, but I hear her voice and I feel the warmth and I sleep like a log.


	12. The Case of the Gingerbread Molds

Prompt from Wordwielder – Gingerbread

* * *

><p>AN: Dedicated to Mrspencil because she always helps and asks nothing in return. Thank you, ma'am.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Case of the Gingerbread Molds<strong>

I recall very clearly that 12th of December 1882. It was a Monday morning and Sherlock Holmes and I were preparing to celebrate our second Christmas as flat mates. Holmes, as I expected, was little interested in seasonal celebrations. He preferred to observe them quietly at home. I enjoyed the time of year, harkening back to better days in my youth. To Holmes' credit he did not object to the wreath I hung in the window or the garland over the door. Our sitting room was far too small to have a Christmas tree, of course, but I had helped Mrs. Hudson and Billy set one up in her large sitting room on the ground floor and I felt all was right with the world.

That particular Monday morning stands out from the majority for one reason. It was an odd crime that Holmes should have ignored or at most, scoffed at. To the contrary, he was positively intrigued.

"Good morning, Watson," he said coming into the sitting room from his bed chamber wearing, as he often did, his mouse grey dressing gown.

"Good morning, Holmes," I replied. "Coffee is ready if you'd care for some."

"Yes. I think I would," he said and settled into his chair across from me. "Is there anything of interest in the papers this morning?"

"I don't know if any of it is really in your line," I said truthfully. "They caught the Bayswater Slasher last night."

"Any fool can apprehend a glorified cutpurse," Holmes said derisively.

"A neat piece of work on the part of the police, I thought," I said in passing, as I continued to scan through the police blotter.

"Did they have one of the constables put on a dress and walk unescorted down the lane?" Holmes asked, buttering a slice of toast.

"Yes," I confirmed and glanced at him. He was smiling smugly. I went on, "There's Lady Aplington's jewel box. You said that didn't interest you, though."

"When a lady makes a false claim on her insurance agent, it is up to that agent to employ me," he said primly. "I do not rake muck and besmirch a lady's reputation simply to occupy my time. Anything else?"

"Here's an odd one," I said with a bit of a smile. "A baker's shop on Margaret Street was robbed last night sometime after midnight."

"A baker's shop?" Holmes asked with a puzzled frown. "How very odd. Was the till stolen?"

"No," I said and skimmed through the brief article. "Says here the only things taken were gingerbread molds. I didn't know there were such things."

"Nor did I, Watson," Holmes admitted. "I never gave much thought to the subject. I supposed they had to have some sort of cutter to make those fanciful little gingerbread men. Molds. Really?"

"Here's what is in the article, though it isn't much:

_Mr. George Tucker and wife, proprietors of Tucker's Breads and Fine Confections, rose early this morning to fire their ovens only to discover their income would be sorely diminished. In the night a burglar had entered by way of the delivery door at the back of their bakery and made off with some forty gingerbread molds the Tuckers use to make seasonal confections at this time every year. The theft is thought to have occurred sometime after midnight, as the baker had worked late preparing for his next day's orders._

_Mr. George Tucker told this reporter the molds had been passed down from father to son for many generations and this was a serious blow to his family's heritage. He hopes the police will take the theft seriously as without these molds he believes he will be hard pressed to make a living. Police Inspector Jones refused to make any comment or statement regarding the theft._

"And that's all there is." I finished.

"There are many Joneses on the force," said Holmes, "but I may know this one. If it is the man I think it is, the Tuckers will never see their prized molds again."

"Is he that bad?" I asked.

"He is an imbecile, Watson," replied Holmes. "He has one thing to his credit, though. He's as tenacious as a lobster. Once he gets his claw on something, he doesn't let it go. I doubt this theft will be enough to bait him, though. May I see that paper?"

I passed Holmes the paper, open to the page with the story on it. I was going to ask him what he thought of the theft when Mrs. Hudson came in with our breakfast and fresh coffee. The wonderful smell of roasted sausage and fried eggs drove all thoughts of gingerbread molds from my mind and I tucked in quite happily.

"Would you care to go round to Margaret Street with me, Watson?" Holmes asked when we had finished our meal.

"Margaret Street?" I asked. I could not believe that so trivial a theft had actually gotten his attention.

"Yes," he said, giving me a direct, but amused look. "It's just that Jones is such an unreliable sort on something like this. I feel some compassion for these poor people. Their livelihood is in some jeopardy, don't you think?"

"Well, it's certainly better than spending another day cooped up in here," I said. "Yes. I'll go with you, Holmes. Gladly."

A little after ten that morning we stepped down from our cab in front of Tucker's Breads and Fine Confections. There was a steady traffic going in and out of the bakery, but it seemed mostly of the professional sort. Young men carrying wooden cages or crates filled with various sorts of breads and stacking them in the backs of delivery carriages. I supposed they were taking them to restaurants and the like. While Holmes paid our driver I examined the front windows with their charming displays of confections. Here there was a large Christmas cake. There a tray of brightly frosted biscuits in the shape of Father Christmas. All manner of sweet delights were in evidence. I could not imagine the baker's income would suffer over much from the loss of the gingerbread molds.

Holmes and I entered the bakery and were immediately enveloped in the pleasing scent of baked goods. The bakery, as far as I could determine, was quite a tidy and well run place. Breads were confined to one side of the establishment while cakes and other more fanciful edibles were on the other side. Holmes strode purposefully up to a round man of middling years wearing an apron who was just setting out a tray of gingerbread ornaments, or so I took them to be.

"Good morning, sir," said Holmes pleasantly. "Would you be Mr. Tucker by chance?"

"I am, sir," said the man. "Good morning to you. How may I be of service?"

"It is I who might be of service to you, sir," said my friend. "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Dr. Watson."

"Good morning to you, Doctor," Mr. Tucker greeted me. "What is it you mean by being of service to me, Mr. Holmes?"

"You see, we read the article in the Gazette this morning recounting the theft of your molds," Holmes explained. "It caught my interest and I thought, perhaps, I should see if I might be able to recover them for you."

"Indeed?" Mr. Tucker said, taking a closer look at my friend and myself. "Are you with the police?"

"No," replied Holmes easily. "I am a private investigator, Mr. Tucker. Nothing more."

"Well, sir, I can't afford a private investigator," Mr. Tucker replied a little crossly. "And I don't think it's appropriate for a man to come here preying upon me and my missus in our hour of need, Mr. Holmes."

"I assure you, that is the farthest thing from my mind," Holmes said soothingly. "Call it a whim on my part in keeping with the spirit of the season. I would charge not a penny, Mr. Tucker. My sole concern is to recover your molds for you, if I am able."

Mr. Tucker narrowed his eyes suspiciously at my friend and then at me. I gave him a nod of assurance and his expression softened.

"If that is the case, Mr. Holmes, I ask you to forgive me," said the baker. "My only excuse is that the theft has me out of sorts."

"I quite understand, sir," Holmes said and waved it away. "No need for apology or explanation."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Tucker, looking more relaxed than a moment before. "And thank you also, Doctor. What can I do to help?"

"The article contained very little information," Holmes said. "It did mention the thief entered by the delivery door. I'd like to take a look at that, if I may."

Tucker readily agreed and brought us through his bakery with its ovens and racks of loaves. The temperature was quite warm, especially in comparison to the weather outside. Holmes paused a pace or two from the door to get a general impression, I supposed. I recall it as being a stout but otherwise typical door of its kind. A large handle of iron, large strap hinges and a small window like a porthole at the height for a person to look through. This last was protected by a grate of wrought iron bars fastened in place with heavy rivets. The door seemed perhaps a little over built for the protection of a mere bakery.

"I note these bars are quite new, Mr. Tucker," observed Holmes. "Installed no more than six or seven months ago."

"That's quite right, Mr. Holmes," Tucker confirmed. "I had them put in back about the first week of June."

"May I know why?" Holmes asked.

"That's simple enough, sir," said Tucker. "Some vagrant or drunkard broke in."

"There was a break in prior to last night?" my friend asked, though he did not sound surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." Tucker scratched his chin in thought. "First week of June. I'm sure of it. I can look in my account book if you'd like. I recorded the purchase of the bars and they was put in the day after the break in."

"And did that burglar steal anything?" asked Holmes.

"No, sir," said Tucker. "That window was smashed, sir. All the cupboards were gone through, but nothing was missing. Upset my wife something terrible."

"I can imagine," Holmes murmured. "Tell me, Mr. Tucker, where were the gingerbread molds kept at that time?"

"I kept them in the cellar, sir," the baker replied. "They're made of wood and quite old, you see. My father taught me how to polish them with bee's wax to keep the wood from cracking, but he always made a point to impress on me the need to keep them at an even temperature so as they wouldn't shrink or swell. He said to store them like they was wine, sir."

"And where is the entrance to this cellar you kept them in?" asked Holmes.

"Oh, well, it's outside, sir," Tucker said pointing to the back wall of the bakery. "I keep it locked tight, as any man would."

"So, if I understand you correctly, the molds would not have been in here at the time of the first burglary," said Holmes.

"I only get them out this time of year, sir," Tucker confirmed. "They're for making gingerbread biscuits."

"I see. Will you pardon me a moment?" Holmes asked courteously and then went to examine the lock of the door. He used a small but powerful magnifying lens to inspect the keyhole. I was a little surprised to see him push the corner of his handkerchief into the opening and twist it about before withdrawing it.

"Well, Holmes?" I asked when he was through.

"It was well oiled and then picked, Watson," Holmes told me. "This was no amateur. Certainly it was not his first break in."

"I'm not trusting that lock again, sir," Mr. Tucker told us. "I've called round to the blacksmith and commissioned him to forge me a locking bolt. I'll shut this place up like a fortress from now on."

"A wise precaution, though I'm afraid it is too late, Mr. Tucker," Holmes said. "May I have a look at your cellar door?"

"Right this way." Tucker lead us out into the wide alley behind his bakery and to a narrow door made of planks. He used a key from his pocket to open the lock, a twin to the one on his back door, and then took a lantern from a hook. Holmes lit the lantern with a match from his pocket and the baker led us down into the inky dark of his cellar. Though outside was freezing cold, the cellar was a moderate temperature. It was a small room with a stone floor, neither damp nor dry. I remember thinking it would have made an excellent place in which to store wine.

"This is the cabinet I kept the molds in, Mr. Holmes," Tucker said, indicating a plain but well-crafted wooden cabinet the height of a man. He opened the door and showed us the empty shelves on which the molds had been kept when not in use.

"Yes," Holmes said, running a finger over the surface of one of the shelves. "I think I've seen enough down here, Mr. Tucker. Tell me, do you still have any of the ginger biscuits made in these molds? I would very much like to see some of them."

"I have a few of each left, though they are a day old now," said the baker as we climbed the steps back up to the alley.

Mr. Tucker conducted us back into the bakery and past his ovens to a room near the far end of the shop. A woman was there rolling dough and placing it into forms to rise. Several younger people were kneading dough and dividing it by weight, while still more were mixing ingredients.

"This is my wife, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Mr. Tucker said. "Annabelle, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. They've come out of the goodness of their hearts to help recover our molds."

"Have they?" Mrs. Tucker asked, pausing in her work to look at us. She was a plump yet comely woman of an age with her husband and I must say she fit with him like salt fits with pepper. "It's very kind of you gentlemen, I'm sure. Though I don't know there's anything that can be done to get them back. A terrible thing it is to have a stranger creep into our home and business to steal things. And to lose those molds after they've been passed down so many years. Our son Thomas was to have them from my Albert. And now I suppose we'll never see them again."

"I hope that will not be the case," said Holmes. "I can make no promise, save that I will do my best to return them to you."

"Annabelle, what did you do with those ginger biscuits we had left over from yesterday?" Tucker asked his wife. "Mr. Holmes would like to see them."

"They're all over there on the counter," she said and pointed to a large basket under a window.

Holmes and I examined the biscuits, the homey smell of ginger rising to greet us. They were the most peculiar biscuits I have ever seen. Not true biscuits, rather more like carvings of people in old fashioned garb. The bakers had used colored sugar to paint them so there was a variety of each one. Holmes selected one in the shape of a lady and set it aside and then plucked another in the shape of a gentleman with a sword on his hip. As I watched, I realized most of the biscuits were little men in different courtly dress. They all seemed to be in the same sort of clothing. It reminded me of what one my find in a play by Shakespeare. Most amusing.

"Watson, do you see what I see?" Holmes asked.

"Gingerbread men, though they are quite the strangest I've ever laid eyes on," I answered.

"Say rather, unique," said Holmes and held up the first gingerbread lady he had set aside. "Does she not remind you of anyone?"

"Well," I said and looked closely at the biscuit. "She does look somewhat familiar. I suppose that could be said of dolls or tin soldiers, too. Familiar, but I can't place her."

"Dolls or tin soldiers," Holmes murmured with a smile. "Mr. Tucker, may I take a few of these biscuits? I would like to show them to someone."

"If it will help get my molds back, Mr. Holmes, you can have the whole basket," said Tucker.

"I shan't need so many." Holmes picked half a dozen including the lady he already held. Tucker provided a small box to put them in and Holmes promised to report back as soon as he knew anything. Mister and Missus Tucker thanked us profusely and we bid them good day.

"Where to now, Holmes?" I asked when were back on the street.

"The British Museum, Watson," he said, waving down a hansom.

"Museum?" I asked, bewildered.

"A friend of mine is studying for his doctorate and has been taken on in their archives," Holmes explained. "I believe he will find these ginger biscuits quite interesting."

Holmes and I stopped at the reception desk and made inquiry after Holmes' friend. We were told he was in his office down stairs and a page conducted us to him. Thomas Free greeted each of us with a smile and handshake. I found him instantly likeable. A small, bookish man, to be sure, but an enthusiast for his field of study which was the court of Queen Elizabeth and more generally the Tudor line.

"What brings you down here, Holmes?" Free asked as he waved us to a pair of leather chairs.

"I have some items I would like for you to examine," Holmes told him. "I think they are rather in your line."

"My line?" Free asked with a smile. "Ha! That's good. A box of biscuits. Just like you to joke, Holmes. I'll send the porter for some tea and we'll have a proper visit."

"Tea if you must, but first take a look at the biscuits," Holmes insisted.

Free frowned, apparently thinking Holmes was forcing the joke, but he humored him.

"Holmes?" Free said in a tone of sneaking suspicion. "Where did you find these?"

Holmes told Free of the theft and explained his reason for bring the biscuits to him.

"I think you're onto something here," said Free and rose to take the box to a work table in the corner of the room. He laid them out in a neat row and took a large portfolio book from a shelf. Opening the portfolio he found the page he was looking for and took out a large magnifying lens. "You _are_ onto something. Look here! This one is Sir Francis Walsingham! You can see the details quite well, considering they're done in gingerbread. And this one of the lady! Holmes! It's Elizabeth! Where did you find these? Who made them?"

"Calm yourself, Free," Holmes soothed. "I told you. These were made using the molds that were stolen."

"Yes," breathed Free. "Yes. You told me. I just hadn't expected this. Forgive me. It's a shock, that's all."

"Can you identify any of the others?" I asked, finally getting an idea of why Holmes had been so interested.

"Well, this one is a very Spanish looking fellow," Free said. "And this other looks rather German. It's difficult to tell. What I can say for certain is that these two molds were made based on certain paintings we have in our collection. These others are likely done by the same method."

"That is very interesting," Holmes said and began to pace.

"Wait a moment!" Free exclaimed. "I think I recognize this style. Wait here, will you? I'll be right back. Not gone for long!"

And like a shot, Free darted from the room. I looked at Holmes and he at me. His brows were raised and there was a pleased twinkle in his eyes that I rarely had seen. Free returned a minute later carrying, of all things, an ornate chair. He set it down near the table and took up his magnifying lens again, examining the carvings on the arms and chair back.

"It's him," Free stated simply. "I can't be certain without seeing the molds themselves, but I would wager a month's allowance on it."

"Who?" asked Holmes, going closer to the chair and peering at the carvings.

"Robert of Luton," said Free, almost shaking with excitement. "He started his apprenticeship during the reign of King Henry III. By the time Elizabeth came to the throne he was a journeyman and became one of her favorites. I'm sure he must have carved those molds. If it wasn't him, it was one of his students. The style is just too similar."

"Robert of Luton was a sculptor?" I asked.

"No, Dr. Watson," Free said, hardly able to contain his exuberance. "A carpenter. Furniture maker. A wood worker, Doctor. And I feel sure I could prove the provenance of the molds if we can recover them."

"Would they be worth anything?" Holmes asked.

This seemed to surprise Mr. Free. The excited animation I had just witnessed in him drained instantly away, replaced by a rigid mental concentration.

"If it could be proven that these molds were made by Robert of Luton for Queen Elizabeth, then they might be worth a great deal to a collector," he said, finally. "Without proof, then they would be no more than curiosities. Worth no money and little historically. I can prove it, though, if you can bring them to me. It would mean the making of me if you could, Holmes. Oh do get them, Holmes! I beg you!"

"Calm yourself, Free," Holmes soothed again.

"Take a deep breath and let it out slowly, man," I advised. I was frankly growing concerned for the young man. He seemed on the verge of a nervous collapse.

"Now, tell me, who would be able to recognize these ginger biscuits for what they are?" Holmes said evenly, so as not to excite his friend again.

"It would have to be someone who knew of Robert," Free said slowly. "Someone familiar with the style of carving. Someone very familiar with Elizabeth's reign."

"Can you make a list of those people?" Holmes asked. "Omit any who are not currently in London."

"I don't know," Free said and glanced at the ginger biscuits. "I can make a list of those who are probably in London and then I'll make a list of those who might be."

"That will have to do," Holmes said and patted Free on the shoulder. "Send the list to my flat when it's done. Tell no one of this discovery. For the moment it must remain secret."

"Very well, Holmes," Free said and went to his desk. "Just between the three of us. Not a word. I promise."

We said our goodbyes and went and hailed another cab.

"Where now?" I asked, feeling the energy I often felt when I knew there was some plan in motion. We were on the hunt and the game was afoot!

"Back to the baker's, Watson," Holmes said, seeming as intent as I. "I have more questions to ask him. From there we shall return to Baker Street to partake of lunch and wait for Free's list. After that, we will see where the trail leads."

Upon arriving at Mr. Tucker's bakery we found the baker and his wife busy with their loaves. Holmes questioned the man while they worked.

"Before the first burglary, Mr. Tucker, was there anyone who made inquiry in regard to the molds?" Holmes asked him.

"Not to my recollection, Mr. Holmes," the baker said and slid a large tray with several loaves from the oven. He placed them on a table and immediately pulled another out, repeating his movements like a machine.

"I remember one!" Mrs. Tucker said, her movements a mirror of her husband's. "Came in a day or two after Christmas last year. Came in again after the New Year, too. Said he liked the ginger biscuits so much he wanted to buy the molds so his cook could bake them. I told him no. The molds wasn't for sale. They was my husband's, after all."

"And do you remember the name of this man?" Holmes asked intently.

"Didn't give a name," she said. "I think he said his wife had got some for a Christmas party. That's how he found out about the biscuits in the first place."

"I see," said Holmes, sounding disappointed.

"Now we don't get too many large orders for them," Mr. Tucker said, still removing loaves from the ovens. "And it would have been right near Christmas."

"The account book!" Mrs. Tucker cried. "Albert, it'll be in the account book. Any big order we had would be, wouldn't it?"

"You're right, Annabelle!" Tucker exclaimed. "You just let me finish up with this bread, Mr. Holmes, and I'll fetch my books. We'll see whose name we find."

And that's just what we did. The order in question had been placed by Mrs. Priscilla Logan of Saffron Hill on the twenty-first of December 1881. We now had a name to look into and Holmes' appetite for the case was whetted.

"May I borrow this ledger, Mr. Tucker?" he asked.

"Certainly!" Tucker said with much enthusiasm. "Get my molds back and you can have one of my ovens, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," Holmes laughed. "I don't know where I would put it, though. I will return this ledger as soon as I can. Good day to you."

At Baker Street we feasted on very good ham and a loaf of fresh bread Mrs. Tucker had forced on us as we left the bakery. Good mustard and thinly sliced chees complimented the meal. At half past noon a commissionaire from the museum delivered the list Free had promised and Holmes looked over it with great interest.

"Look here, Watson," he said rising and crossing to me where I sat by the fire. "Ronald Elmore Logan."

"Can we be sure, Holmes?" I asked, though hope raced in me.

"It should be a simple matter to find out if he is related to Priscilla Logan," said he. "I'll wager they are husband and wife, Watson. Do me a service, will you?"

"Surely I will," I said readily.

"Go through my common place books on the shelf there and see what you can learn of these people," he said and made for his bed room.

"What will you be doing?" I asked, though I was already up and reaching for the L volume.

"I must make some inquiries of a delicate nature, Watson," he said, coming out still pulling on his frockcoat. "It is possible that the molds are not yet in the hands of Mr. Logan. That would be to our good if I can locate them."

What I learned about Mr. Ronald Elmore Logan was that he was a fairly wealthy man. He owned shares in mines in South Africa and Canada. He also owned a controlling interest in a major trans-Atlantic shipping company and was heavily invested in the railway. Two other items of note were that he was a large contributor to the British Museum and had taken a degree in Elizabethan history. There was little doubt in my mind at that point that we had our man, or at least knew who was behind the theft.

Holmes returned at around three that afternoon. His demeanor was that of a man who was ready but relaxed. I watched him carefully as he loaded his pipe and lit it.

"Watson, would you be up for a little action this evening?" he asked, taking his chair by the fire.

"Absolutely," I said.

"Excellent," said he. "We have some time to pass before we meet Inspector Peter Jones. Tell me what you can about Ronald Logan."

Working from my notes I gave him an outline of the man and his interests. Holmes was keen for it all and had me show him the articles he had pasted in his book. The next two hours dragged by for me, but Holmes occupied himself with his violin, pacing back and forth in front of our large window.

At five o'clock we took a cab and met Police Inspector Jones on the street several doors down from a boarding house. It seemed to be a middle class sort of place. There certainly were no obvious signs a criminal lurked beyond the gaily decorated front door.

"Mr. Holmes," said the inspector as we walked up. "Who's this gentleman, sir?"

"This is my associate, Dr. Watson," Holmes introduced me.

"This might get rough, Doctor," Jones warned me.

"I'm aware of the danger, Inspector Jones," I said and showed him my revolver.

"Very good, then," he said and looked to Holmes. "Shall we go in?"

Holmes gave him a nod and we strode to the door and entered the boarding house. The inspector flashed his badge at the matronly woman who accosted us in the foyer and she went silent, though she was clearly confused.

"Where is Simon Burch?" Jones demanded.

"Upstairs," the woman said. "Turn right. His room is at the end of the hall."

We followed her directions, moving quietly but not too quietly. Had this Burch heard a stealthy step on the boards it might have alerted him to his danger. I will say this in favor of Inspector Jones; he was a man of action. His stride hardly faltered as he approached the door and kicked it open, splintering the frame as the lock tore loose.

Burch had been laying in his bed reading the Times and when the door burst in he sat bolt upright in bed and stared at us. Jones was on him in an instant and by some trick he threw him to the floor and snapped the darbies on the man's wrists.

"What's this about?" demanded Burch. "You can't kick in a man's door and arrest him without cause! I have rights!"

"You _are_ under arrest," Jones said coolly. "The charge is theft and burglary. I advise you to come along peacefully, Simon Burch."

"I've stolen nothing!" Burch protested.

"Then where did you get these?" Holmes asked, almost sounding amused. From the floor he lifted a large crate like the ones we'd seen at the bakery that morning. In it were small blocks of wood with sheets of waxed paper laid between them. Holmes removed one from the top and showed it to Inspector Jones. "Your evidence, Inspector."

"They're just blocks of wood," Burch said. "Not worth nothing."

"That remains to be seen," Holmes said and we escorted Burch out to the street where Jones summoned a constable and a four wheeler was hailed.

Later that week Holmes told me his friend Thomas Free had examined the gingerbread molds and was working with two other specialists to confirm they had indeed been carved by Robert of Luton for the court of Queen Elizabeth. References were found indicating the molds had actually been commissioned by her in order to create small gifts for certain visitors to her court throughout her reign. Each mold was carved in the likeness of one of these visitors and the resulting gingerbread man was presented to the person it resembled.

Mr. and Mrs. Tucker were annoyed that the molds were being held as evidence, but they did not fault Sherlock Holmes.

Shortly after Christmas we found another article in the Times that was pleasing to us both. Our gracious Queen Victoria had heard of the molds and their significance to English history. She presented an award of two hundred pounds and a special commendation to the Tuckers for preserving this small, rare and odd collection of artifacts. She also commissioned a new set of molds to be carved provided the Tuckers donated the originals to the British Museum where they could be properly conserved and displayed to the public. As an incentive Queen Victoria consented to allow a mold to be created with her likeness. The Tuckers readily agreed.

* * *

><p>AN: Queen Elizabeth I actually did give gingerbread likenesses to some of the visitors to her court.<p> 


	13. Two Christmases

From TemporarilyAbaft - A story from Holmes' childhood.

* * *

><p><strong>Two Christmases<strong>

_1864 Banbury, Great Britain_

"Sherrinford?"

"Hmm?" Sherrinford turned to find his youngest brother standing somewhat irresolutely in his doorway. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Will you stay?" the youngest Holmes asked.

"Yes," Sherrinford said and turned back to unpacking his suitcase. "I have nearly three weeks."

"No," Sherlock said. "Will you stay? I mean, do you have to go back to school?"

"I'm afraid so, Sherlock," Sherrinford said with a sigh. At seventeen and the eldest of the three brothers, Sherrinford had gone off to university to study business. "You know, one day it will be up to me to run this place. Father has done a wonderful job of building it up, but I will have to carry on when he is gone."

"But I don't want you to go," Sherlock complained.

"You don't?" Sherrinford asked and looked appraisingly at the ten year old.

"I've been so bored," Sherlock said. "Mycroft doesn't like the things you and I do."

"He likes chess and backgammon." Sherrinford sat down on the foot of his bed and waved his younger brother to the chair in front of his writing desk. "And he used to like playing with soldiers."

"He won't play soldiers anymore," Sherlock grumbled, climbing into the chair. "And he always beats me at chess. We tried playing cards, but I think he keeps changing the rules. He won't even go down to the stables anymore."

"It is rather cold for riding, Sherlock," Sherrinford observed.

"Even when it's warm, he won't go," Sherlock said. "Mycroft told me that horses are dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle and he doesn't want any more to do with them. He fell off Bess and hurt his arm. Now he's just lazy."

"I noticed he put on some weight." Sherrinford tried to hide his smile, but failed.

"He sits around reading philosophy all day," Sherlock grumbled. "He's no fun anymore."

"He's getting older, Sherlock," the elder Holmes said. "You will too. Your interests will change just as Mycroft's have."

"But yours haven't," Sherlock asserted. "You still play rugby and you fence and you still ride horses."

"And I still fish and I still go punting," Sherrinford agreed. "I'm thinking about taking up hunting, as well."

"That's what I mean!" Sherlock jumped in. "You haven't changed."

"I have," Sherrinford argued. "As I said, I'm thinking about taking up hunting and that's a change. And I haven't played with toy soldiers in years. Remember, I gave all of mine to you three or four years ago."

"Mycroft gave all of his to me last month," Sherlock grumbled.

"I should think you would have enough for a whole regiment, now," Sherrinford said with a grin.

"I suppose so," sighed Sherlock. "It does get boring playing on my own, though."

"I see," Sherrinford said sympathetically. "You need a good friend. Someone to share your adventures."

"I'd like that, but the village boys don't come up to the house," Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock, what would you like to grow up to be?" Sherrinford asked, trying to change the subject.

"When I grow up?" Sherlock said contemplatively. "I thought I might like to be a knight like Ivanhoe, for a while. Then I found out there aren't any knights like that anymore. And then I thought about being a policeman, but father says that isn't a fit profession for a Holmes. I think, now, I would like to be an explorer."

"An explorer?" said the elder Holmes with a very dramatic and approving frown. "Discover the headwaters of some river or other, eh? Climb mountains that have never been climbed. Very exciting!"

"Yes!" Sherlock said enthusiastically. "All of the strange plants and animals I could find! Maybe find dinosaurs somewhere."

"Sounds wonderful!" Sherrinford said.

"And I would take photographs and draw maps!" Sherlock went on.

"And you could learn new languages from all the strange people you would meet!" Sherrinford encouraged.

"Yes!" Sherlock almost shouted and then caught himself. "Maybe I would find a whole new country that no one knows about! I could bring the king of the Zaggawalla tribe back to meet Queen Victoria and they would have tea together."

"And you could translate for her," Sherrinford said with a firm nod.

"That would be wonderful," beamed Sherlock.

"I tell you what, little brother," Sherrinford said, rising and going to his wardrobe. "Why don't you and I go for a ride?"

"But there's snow on the ground," Sherlock said.

"We'll dress warm and we won't ride for too long," said the older brother. "I haven't been on the back of a horse in months. Do me good. What do you say?"

"Alright!" Sherlock said, hopping up and making for the door.

"And later, maybe I'll show you a little fencing," Sherrinford called after him.

"Yes!" Sherlock called from his room.

_1884 Banbury, Great Britain_

"Uncle Sherlock!" Thaddeus, the youngest Holmes cried out upon seeing his favorite uncle enter the old family home.

"Hello, Tad," Sherlock Holmes replied, smiling at the precocious boy of ten. "You have grown two inches since last I saw you."

"Three!" Tad corrected. "Mother measured last night. She said you would notice."

"Your mother is a very astute woman, as I have always said," replied Holmes.

"Uncle Sherlock," His niece Magdalene greeted Holmes with a hug. At fourteen she was rapidly turning into a fine young lady, the sharper features of the Holmes line softened and rounded by her mother's side of the family. "Father, Andrew, Uncle Sherlock has finally arrived."

From around the corner came a tall young man of seventeen. Sherlock Holmes blink for the boy resembled his father so strongly at the same age.

"Andrew," Holmes said and smiled on his eldest nephew. "Very good to see you. Your studies at Oxford are going well, I see."

"Yes they are, Uncle," Andrew replied, not bothering to ask how his uncle came to that conclusion.

"Sherlock!" Sherrinford Holmes said, coming from the parlor. "So glad you joined us for Christmas this year. It's been too long."

"Come, Uncle Sherlock," Tad said, grabbing Holmes by the arm. "Play soldiers with me. Andrew says he doesn't want to."

"Thaddeus, mind your manners," scolded Sherrinford. "Your uncle is a little old for that sort of thing."

"Nonsense, brother!" Holmes cut in. "Allow me to doff my hat and coat, Nephew, and we shall see what sort of general you are!"

Sherrinford smiled to see his youngest brother hand in hand with his son. Tad was speaking animatedly of all the things he wanted to do with his uncle and Sherlock was actually laughing.

"Father?" Andrew asked, concerned. "Are you well?"

"Quite well, son," Sherrinford replied. "Just remembering something. Nothing more."


	14. Mary Watson's Adventures in the SYWC

Prompt from Madam'zelleGiry - Mary Watson's adventures in the Scotland Yard Wives Club

* * *

><p>AN: Be careful what you ask for.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Mary Watson's Adventures in the Scotland Yard Wives Club<strong>

"You really don't have to start this way, but I find it ever so much better," Margery Lestrade said as she opened her large carpet bag.

"I don't understand," Mary Watson said.

"Well, things sometimes get a little out of hand and it's always better to have a little insurance, dear," Cynthia Gregson explained, pushing back the lid.

"Yes," Loral Bradstreet agreed. "They can be a little bitey if you wake them."

"So you take a rock about this big," Margery said, showing Mary a rock about the size of a boy's fist. "Then you use the blade of your knife and lever the jaw open like this."

Mary stepped back, not knowing what to expect. Margery slipped the blade between the creature's teeth and pried downward, exposing the sharp canines. They really were quite white and gleamed in the flickering lantern light.

"Then you just jam the rock in," Margery said, and pushed the piece of stone between the jaws.

"Always a good idea to have a stone that is neither too rough nor to smooth," Belinda Hopkins said in a clinical tone.

"Why's that?" Mary asked, fascinated in spite of herself.

"Too rough and you can't get it past the teeth," Belinda explained.

"Too smooth and it might slide out at a critical point," Althea Banes finished for her.

"I see," Mary said, nodding in comprehension. "And is this when we use the stake?"

"Would you like to do it, dear?" Margery asked pleasantly as she pulled the large mallet and long wooden stake carved from hawthorn out of her bag.

"I don't know that I should," Mary demurred. "It's my first time on one of these excursions. I mean, I'm not even certain I should be included in your club."

"Nonsense, Mary!" Belinda Hopkins said, waving it away as if it were the silliest notion. "Everyone has to have their first time. I remember mine."

"Oh yes!" laughed Althea Banes. "Planted the stake in the wrong spot! We had a fight getting it back out and then trying to put it in the right place."

"I had to explain to Geoffrey how I got the bruises on my ribs," Margery Lestrade chuckled. "Never made up such a far-fetched story in all my days."

"Should we really be standing here talking like this?" Mary asked, casting a wary look at the creature.

"It's the middle of the afternoon, Mary," Loral Bradstreet told her. "This one's not old enough to be up and around before sunset. You'll get used to this sort of thing after you've got some experience."

"Go on, dear. Take them," Margery encouraged, holding out the mallet and the stake. "I'll help. Just need to have it in the right place."

"I don't know," Mary crawfished. "It just doesn't seem… proper."

"I'll grant, it's not the most ladylike thing to do," Belinda said. "But if we don't do it, who will?"

"Besides, can't let that Van Helsing fellow have all the fun," laughed Cynthia Gregson. "I'm not entirely a Suffragette, but I do think women need to play a larger part in keeping humanity safe."

"That's why we started the Scotland Yard Wives Club in the first place," put in Loral.

"But John isn't part of Scotland Yard," Mary argued.

"He might as well be," Margery said.

"And there is nothing in the bylaws that says you have to be married to a Yarder to be part of the club," Althea added in support of her friend.

Reluctantly, Mary gave in and placed the tip of the sharp stake over the heart of the creature in the coffin. She reminded herself that it was technically not alive and this could not be considered murder. Margery Lestrade adjusted the position of the stake a little and gave her an encouraging nod. Mary closed her eyes tight and slammed the mallet down on the stake, driving it between the ribs and into the heart.

"That was easier than I thought it would be," she said, blinking at the result.

"It is rather easy, dear, but you need to hit it a couple more times," Margery told her.

"Must get it all of the way through," Althea put in.

"Have to tie it back to the soil to prevent the monster from rising," Belinda Hopkins giggled. "That would never do. Remember what happened when Loral didn't get the stake deep enough?"

"That was my first time," Loral protested. "It hasn't happened again."

Mary looked about at the women's faces and then raised her mallet again. She struck with all the strength in her arm, forcing the stake deeper. Another swing drove the hard wood all the way through and the ladies all cheered.

"Quiet down!" Mrs. Hudson hissed from outside the tomb. "The watchman is prowling around. Don't want him calling the coppers, do you?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Margery called. "Just having a bit of fun."

"Well keep it down," Mrs. Hudson hissed back. "I'll tell you when he's gone."

"You know what she needs, don't you?" Althea said with a suggestive grin.

"Another good tavern brawl," Belinda said and covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

"Last time she sent two men to hospital and nearly got us all arrested," Loral said. "I'm not going near a tavern with her."

"What do we do now?" Mary asked, still looking at the creature in the coffin.

"Oh," Margery said taking the mallet from her. "We could cut its head off, if you like."

"Not really necessary at this point," Belinda observed.

"We've got that ghost to deal with over on Highgate Avenue, too," Althea reminded everyone.

"How interesting," said Mary "A real ghost?"

"As real as they come, dear," Margery said and turned as Mrs. Hudson gave the all clear.

"You know," Mary said following them up out of the tomb. "When you invited me to join this club, I thought we would be getting together for tea parties and playing whist."

"That's what our husbands all think we do," Loral said with a snicker.

"This is ever so much more interesting," Cynthia Gregson tittered.

"Oh, I agree," Mary replied with an enthusiastic nod.

"Mary, have you ever fired a Winchester rifle?" Margery asked as they crossed through the graveyard.

"No," Mary said and cast an interested glance at her.

"Would you like to?" Margery asked with a wicked grin.

**The End?**


	15. The Landlady, the Maid & the Errand Boy

Prompt from Emma Lynch - Mrs Hudson`s look of disapproval

* * *

><p><strong>The Landlady, the Maid and the Errand Boy<strong>

"What is it, ma'am?" Wynonna the parlor maid asked. Her employer, Mrs. Hudson, was fairly glaring at the man ascending the steps to the flat of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

"That man," Mrs. Hudson growled.

"That man?" Wynonna asked in a whisper and glanced up as the gentleman knocked on the flat's door. "A murderer or a tax collector, ma'am?"

"Worse than either, in his way," Mrs. Hudson said.

The door opened and closed. From above they could hear the muffled conversation of the great detective and the gentleman who was calling upon him.

"Who is he, then? A rapist, ma'am?" asked Wynonna with a shudder.

"In a manner of speaking," spat Mrs. Hudson. "That is Mr. James Windibank, Wynonna. Do you know what Mr. Holmes told me he did to his own stepdaughter?"

"No, ma'am." Wynonna's eyes were wide and her interest keen.

"That monster pretended to be another man so that his stepdaughter, his own stepdaughter, mind you, would fall in love with him," Mrs. Hudson said with grave disapproval. "And his wife _helped_! Poor girl. To have such parents! Something should be done."

"Done, ma'am?" Wynonna looked at her employer and out of reflex, drew back slightly from her disapproving scowl. Fortunately it was directed up at the flat door, else Wynonna might have run from the house and never returned.

"Yes." Mrs. Hudson's eyes narrowed in thought for a long moment and then a sly smile unlike any the maid had seen her display before crept across the landlady's face. "Get Billy. Fetch your floor things, as well."

Wynonna was about to ask why, but Mrs. Hudson turned and went back into her rooms. The sound of water from the tap filling a pan followed almost instantly. The maid frowned, but thought it best to obey her employer.

Some ten minutes or so later Wynonna was on the steps with her bucket and rag when she heard the voices of the men raised in fierce discord.

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Mr. Holmes. Wynonna heard the lock on the door and then it was thrown open. "Yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove! It is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to..."

The poor maid hardly had time to scramble aside as the gentleman who had so recently climbed the stairs darted from the open door and sprang to the top step. His foot landed squarely on the spot where Wynonna had just been buffing and slipped out from under him. With a cry Mr. James Windibank tumbled and clattered down all seventeen treads, landing upon his back at the very bottom. With difficulty he groped his way to his feet and, recovering some of his energy, dashed for the door. Reaching it he was met by the thick panel as it swung inward. The edge of the door clipped him hard upon the check and brow, sending Mr. Windibank staggering backward to fall in front of Mrs. Hudson's door. He lay there groaning and rubbing his face. From outside Billy entered, peering around the edge of the door curiously, as if wondering what had just occurred.

"Damn you, boy," Mr. Windibank groaned and began to rise.

Just as he was sitting up Mrs. Hudson stepped out from her door with a pan of steaming water in her hands and tripped on Mr. Windibank's leg. The dear old landlady gave a startled cry and let go of her pan in order to catch herself. Unfortunately for the gentleman, the pan of near boiling water fell on him, spilling across his thighs. Mr. Windibank howled in startled agony as it instantly soaked through his trousers to the skin (and other things). Up he sprang and darted for the door, pushing past Billy and out into the street.

"Good afternoon, Wynonna," Mr. Holmes said from his doorway.

"Good afternoon, sir," Wynonna replied, though she had her hand pressed over her mouth to restrain her laughter.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you quite well?" the detective asked mildly.

"Quite well, Mr. Holmes," Laughed the landlady. "Nothing a mop and bucket won't take care of."

"Ah, Billy," Mr. Holmes went on, "you're back. I have an errand I will need you to run for me. Come see me in an hour."

Mr. Holmes closed his door and the landlady, the maid and the errand boy all began laughing.


	16. The Adventure of the Unwelcome Guest

Prompt from Catherine Spark - Moriarty gets a visit from Santa

* * *

><p><strong>The Adventure of the Unwelcome Guest<strong>

The darkness was near complete in the first floor room in the old mansion on the edge of London. It sat upon a small, lightly wooded estate surrounded by an eight foot high stone wall, the top of which was studded with rows of wrought iron spikes. The gates to the grounds were flanked by stone guard houses, like those found at most military installations. The gates themselves were higher than the walls and though decorated, they were clearly intended as functional barriers to any who might call unannounced. Therefore, the occupant of the room slept soundly. At least he did until there came a booming knock at his front door.

BOOM!

Professor James Moriarty woke a little surprised. He had never heard any knock at his front door. Not ever. Especially not in the middle of the night. He lay in his overstuffed bed under his down comforter wondering if he had dreamed it. A strange dream if he had. He rolled onto his side and snuggled into his pillow, intent on returning to sleep.

BOOM!

Moriarty rolled to his back and frowned at the ceiling. Who could it be at this time of night? What time was it, anyway? The clock on the wall read 12:01. Just after midnight? A visitor? One of the servants would surely answer the door. Surely.

BOOM! BOOM!

Moriarty sat up, very irritated. His door would be knocked off the hinges if that kept up. Where were his servants? They had better answer the door and send whoever was calling on his way. If they didn't, he would…

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Each blow came harder. The booming became so loud it drowned out everything, even Moriarty's thoughts. Pressing his hands to his ears the criminal mastermind rolled out of bed and staggered for his chamber door. He stumbled to the head of the stairs and worked his way down to the ground floor and out to the entrance. As his fingers touched the handle of the heavy wooden door the booming stopped. Moriarty breathed a sigh of relief. Drawing himself up to his full height and adopting his most haughty and affronted air, he yanked open the door.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he snarled at the large man filling the mansion's portico.

"Call me Kringle. My card," said the man in a friendly tone. He smiled and held out a calling card to the professor.

Moriarty was so surprised by this that he could do nothing for a moment save gape incredulously. His quick mind assessed the man before him. Tall. Very tall, powerfully built, thick white beard, sparkling blue eyes the color of ice. Burgundy red cloak with white fur trim. Hunter green frockcoat with a crimson waistcoat and white shirt with crimson cravat and hunter green trousers. Very theatrical looking, but something about him spoke of real power.

"How did you get past my guards?" Moriarty demanded, ignoring the proffered card.

"I don't believe they even noticed me," Kringle replied, still holding out his card.

"Well, be off with you, sir," Moriarty hissed and snatching the card from the large man's fingers he tore it in two and cast the pieces on the floor. "Be off with you or I will have the dogs loosed! Caesar! Heel!"

From somewhere in the house the sound of nails on hardwood came. A large mastiff appeared an instant later and stood ready at the professor's side, its lips pulled back and a deep growl rolling from its throat.

Without fear Kringle looked down on the beast and spoke in the voice of an angry glacier, "Bad dog. Sit!"

Caesar was no cowering mongrel to take orders from strangers, but he was no fool. The mastiff stopped his growling and sat, hanging his head and tucking his tail in close to his haunches. Moriarty stared at the dog and then looked back up to the man in his portico.

"I said, off with you, sir," the professor repeated and slammed the door in Kringle's face. "Go, Caesar."

Moriarty watched the dog trot off to the back of the house, its tail between its legs. He wondered how the stranger had gotten the better of the beast, but decided it was time to get a new dog. The chill of the mansion at night finally registered on the professor and he wrapped his arms around himself. He'd put on neither dressing gown nor slippers when he'd left his bedchamber and now felt it was past time to return to the warmth of his comforter. As he passed the large sitting room he jumped back in shock. Kringle was standing quietly by the fireplace smoking a large, curving pipe. Moriarty, recovering his composure, strode into the room and went to a sideboy near the doorway. Opening a drawer he withdrew a large-frame revolver and pointed it at Kringle.

"Out of my home, you blackguard!" snapped Moriarty. "Get out!"

Kirngle looked at the professor and smiled, but gave no other indication he had heard the order.

"I said I want you out of here," Moriarty said. "Out now."

"Professor, I have a few things to tell you," said Kringle.

"Enough!" Moriarty shouted. He was not used to people who didn't follow his commands. He was not used to people who were not afraid of him. Most of all, he was not used to people who made him feel afraid. He raised his revolver, taking careful aim. "I warned you."

"You did," Kringle agreed amiably.

Moriarty pulled the trigger. Instead of the loud gunshot he'd been expecting, a small, red flag popped out of the weapon's barrel unfurling to display the word BANG! in large yellow letters. Moriarty frowned at the flag and then looked up at Kringle.

"It's a little chilly in here, Professor," Kringle said and waved his hand at the fireplace. Instantly the smoldering coals that had been banked for the night burst into vivid fire, filling the room with warmth and a comforting glow. "That's better. Why don't you and I just sit down and have a talk."

Moriarty glared at the revolver in his hand once more and set it aside. He didn't know how the large man had replaced his Webley or how he'd done whatever he'd done to the fire, but it seemed the only thing to do was sit and hear what Kringle had to say. Perhaps he could find some other means to rid himself of the fellow.

Kringle filled the large wingback chair he chose while Moriarty had plenty of room in its twin on the opposite side of the fire. In the dimness, relieved only by the light of the fire, Moriarty saw the large man's eyes twinkling.

"How did you get in here?" Moriarty demanded.

"Perhaps I came down your chimney," Kringle chuckled.

"What do you want of me?" the professor asked, his temper cooling, allowing his reason to ascend.

"I think that will be enough of your questions, James," said Kringle, puffing out a great cloud of smoke. "I've come to warn you."

"Warn me?" Moriarty demanded. He didn't like people calling him by his given name, but chose to overlook it.

"I don't suppose you have any idea who I am," said Kringle gravely. From his pocket he produced a tightly rolled scroll of paper. "This is my naughty list. Or one of them, I should say."

Professor James Moriarty blinked at the man. Could he really be suggesting…?

"That's right," said Kringle. "Father Christmas, Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Weinachtsmann, what have you. That's me."

"I'm dreaming," Moriarty said. "That explains everything. That's why the servants did not answer the door. That's why Caesar acted so strangely. It certainly explains the pistol."

Kringle laughed at that and drew upon his pipe once more.

"I am dreaming," Moriarty said a little more crisply. "You are a fiction my mind has created. I will wake and you will be gone."

"If that's the case," Kringle said with a chuckle, "I'd better get down to business."

He flicked his wrist and the scroll unrolled. There were several feet of it and the coil stopped at the professor's feet with still more not yet unrolled. In clear, plain handwriting was a list written upon the paper. Moriarty leaned down and gathered the scroll to him. He peered at it in the light from the fire. Frowning, he realized the list contained many entries, each of which was a crime he had committed or had had committed.

"As I said, I am dreaming," the professor reiterated. "No one save myself knows about all of these. And no one save myself knows I am connected to all of them. I am dreaming."

"It is that you might save yourself that I am here, James," Kringle said evenly.

"So you are standing in for Marley's ghost?" the professor snorted. "Poppycock!" He thrust himself to his feet and waving his arms in the air he cried out, "I do not believe in ghosts! I do not believe in God! I certainly do not believe in Father Christmas!"

"Very likely you do not believe in Henry Stoddard Babcock, either," Kringle said in a very mild tone. "I assure you, though, he does exist."

"Even if I accept you hypothetically," Moriarty said heatedly and turned on the larger man, "what does this prove? What does your list prove? It is no evidence."

"You see a list," Kringle said and blew out another stream of smoke. "I see links."

"Links?" demanded the professor regaining his composure. "Explain that."

"Links, as in a great chain," replied Kringle. "A chain that will drag you down in the end, James. You will drown under the weight of it."

"Will I?" Moriarty scoffed.

"You will," replied Kringle. "Unless you begin making amends."

"I told you, I don't believe in ghosts or gods."

"Or a child who will grow up to be a great athlete," Kringle shrugged. "I'm trying to help you save yourself, James. Do not ignore this warning."

"Save myself?" Moriarty shook his head and crossed the room to his port decanter. "Save myself from what?"

"Your untimely death and the punishment that comes after," said Kringle, rolling up his list.

"I don't believe in a hereafter," the professor said tiredly. "Your bogeyman holds no power over me."

"I see," said Kringle getting to his feet. "You know, I didn't want to come here in the first place. These visits never do any good with your kind."

"My kind?" Moriarty asked turning to face the large man. "What do you mean by that? I am the only one of my kind."

Kringle laughed until his whole frame shook. He slapped his knee and wiped a tear from his eye. Moriarty frowned at him the way a cat will if you pull its tail.

"That's another thing they all think," gasped Kringle. "Bonapart said the same thing. He said it in French, but the meaning was the same. James, consider this: If I am only a dream and dreams come from within, then is it possible that part of you believes you have done wrong? Is it possible that you are not as sure of yourself as you claim? Is it possible there is a part of your mind that wants to do good? Perhaps you wish to give up this horrid life you have created for yourself. Think on it, man. With your intellect you could rise high in the esteem of your fellow man. You could erase the harm you have done. You could make amends for all those who have suffered unjustly at your hands! Change your life, James!"

"Get out," Moriarty said and drained his glass.

"Know this, then," Kringle said in that voice of grinding ice. "A year hence your destruction is guaranteed. You will not see another Christmas, James Moriarty. I will not call again. There will be no ghost of past, present or future to redeem you. I tell you change. It is up to you to make the change or be dragged down by the chains you have made."

With that the fire dimmed to coals and the figure of Kringle vanished before Professor Moriarty's eyes. James felt cold once more. He set aside his glass and climbed the stairs to his room. The clock on the wall read 12:01.

"I was only dreaming," he said to himself. "Poppycock. Nonsense. Henry Stoddard Babcock. Nothing but a foolish dream."

Moriarty lay down in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and felt a comfortless warmth spread over him. If it were no more than a dream, where had it come from? He believed in only the things he could touch and quantify. Therefore, he was relieved of mores and conventions imposed on lesser men by society. His intellect separated him from them as theirs separated them from ants. He fell asleep with that reassurance, but his sleep was restless and remained so.

* * *

><p>AN: Henry Stoddard Babcock was an American athlete who won the gold medal for pole vault in the 1912 Summer Olympics. He was born December 15, 1890.<p> 


	17. A Meal in Simpson's

Prompt from KnightFury - A meal in Simpson's.

* * *

><p><strong>A meal in Simpson's<strong>

"Holmes!" I called jubilantly upon entering our flat. Though it was quite cold that December I was warm through and through. "They published it!"

"Watson, really!" Holmes snapped. "I knew something was up when I heard you storming up the stairs in that way, but to burst in on a man while he's conducting a chemical test is quite uncalled for."

"They published the story!" I said, ignoring my flat mate's ill humor. It had been some time since his last case and his temper had gradually grown shorter and his mood darker. "The Strand, Holmes!"

He snatched the magazine I'd been waving in his face and scowled at me. I subsided, though, I'm certain I had the most foolish grin on my face.

"I do not understand your excitement, Doctor," Holmes said sternly. "You knew they were going to publish... What did you call it, again?"

"A Study in Scarlet, Holmes," I said and began pacing, unable to contain myself.

"Yes," he frowned and paged through the magazine. "Overly romanticized the title, I dare say. You were paid for it months ago, Watson. Why this show of glee?"

"Because it's my first story in print, Holmes!" I said, still grinning like a fool.

"Who is this Paget fellow?" Holmes demanded.

"The illustrator," I told him.

"Your likeness is quite good," he said and peered more closely at the open page. "Mine is satisfactorily obscure. Congratulations on that, at least, Watson."

"Holmes, you will not damp me," I said proudly. "Come. Celebrate with me, dear fellow."

"How?" he snorted. "By going to the local public house and drinking draughts until neither of us can stand?"

"No," I said, ignoring the slight. "I was thinking lunch at Simpson's. What do you say? I'm paying."

Simpson's was my friend's favorite restaurant and I felt sure that a meal there would not only tempt him out of the house, but might also lighten his mood. It would give him an opportunity to observe people in their natural environment.

"Very well, Watson," said Holmes finally. "If it will curb your ebullience, I will accompany you."

He said it as if he felt it a chore, but the change in his demeanor told me he was not so much resigned to going as he wanted me to think he was.

We were greeted by Wilson, Simpson's maître d', and escorted to one of Holmes' preferred tables. We placed our orders and were enjoying a serving of fresh tea when we heard a cry and commotion from the far side of the dining room.

"Ho, ho. What's this?" Holmes wondered aloud.

We both craned our necks to see what was the matter. I could see only a trio of figures moving around a table near the windows. One was a young woman. The other two were men and for a moment I thought they were in some sort of scuffle. Other patrons were quickly clearing away from the table and thereby blocking our view.

"Watson!" Holmes hissed. "Your skills are needed unless I am much mistaken!"

Instantly I was on my feet and with Holmes close behind I plunged through the crowd.

"I'm a doctor!" I called loudly, exhorting people to clear the way.

Holmes and I emerged on a scene of chaos. Two waiters were attempting to restrain an older gentleman who was prone on the floor. The gentleman shook violently and frothed at the mouth, then suddenly settled and lay still. I knelt at his side and felt for a pulse.

"It's his heart," the young woman said. "Poor father!"

"There, there, Delia," said the young man putting a comforting arm around her. "Let the doctor work. It may not be what you fear. Father has had episodes before."

"Watson?" Holmes asked, kneeling next to me.

"I'm afraid I am too late, Holmes," I said. "The man has no pulse. It looks to be cardiac arrest."

"He's had a bad heart for years, Doctor," said the young man. "His physician warned him to take things easy. Not to over work and the like. He was on a strict diet."

"Yes," I said rising to my feet and looking sympathetically at the young people. "I'm sorry to say, it seems his physician was correct. His heart appears to have given out on him. I am sorry."

The girl was stricken. She turned her face to her brother's shoulder and began to weep. He comforted her as best he could, but there really is little to do in such a situation.

Wilson, the consummate professional in his field, led a party of waiters carrying privacy screens across the dining area and began ushering the displaced customers to new tables or out of the door, depending on their preferences. The screens went up quickly, giving us all the privacy an open room could provide. Holmes had remained kneeling next to the deceased for a few minutes before rising to stand by me.

"What was this gentleman's name?" he asked the young man.

"Douglass Ward," the young man replied. "Why do you ask, sir?"

"My friend will need it for the death certificate," Holmes said easily. "An unfortunate necessity."

"I'm afraid I will also need your names, Mr. Ward," said I, taking my pad and a pencil from my pocket.

"Oh," the young man replied a little uncomfortably. "My name is Donaldson, Robert Donaldson and this is my sister, Delia. Mr. Ward is… was our stepfather."

"I see," I said. "What is your mother's name? I need to include next of kin on the certificate."

"We are the next of kin, Doctor," Mr. Donaldson said. "Our mother died two years ago in August."

"I understand," I said and wrote down their names. "I really am very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Doctor," Mr. Donaldson said.

Miss Donaldson soon recovered her composure and sank limply down into one of the chairs. She wiped tears from her eyes with a lace trimmed kerchief and stared at nothing.

"Forgive me for asking, Mr. Donaldson," said Holmes. "Are you the same Robert Donaldson who wrote the monograph on bee culturing?"

"Why, yes I am," said the young man with the slightest of smiles. I thought it quite brave of him under the circumstances.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my friend. "You may remember our brief correspondence."

"Holmes?" Donaldson said and then brightened. "I do remember you, Mr. Holmes. You seemed quite well informed for a man who admitted to having no hives."

"I studied the creatures in their wild state," Holmes said. "I wish we were meeting on a more auspicious occasion."

"Of course, sir," Donaldson agreed.

I glanced at Holmes surreptitiously. There had been something about his tone and his manner that alerted me more was going on than I had been aware of. He looked my way and then down to the table. My eyes roamed over the plates and dishes set out as Holmes turned and stepped beyond the screens. What I saw were the remains of an interrupted meal. The young lady had been served a filet of some sort of fish. Mr. Donaldson's meal was roast beef with a baked potato. Mr. Ward's meal, now scattered over the table and the floor, looked to also have been fish. There were a number of round rolls on a small silver tray and an upset cruet of honey along with the usual salt and pepper. It looked as though all three diners had been drinking tea from the same pot. I made no mention of these facts to the young people, waiting upon Holmes to make the next move.

"I have arranged for an ambulance to conduct your father to hospital," said Holmes, stepping back between the screens.

I noticed when Holmes used the word 'father' Mr. Donaldson shot him the briefest of looks. Holmes, I knew, had seen it. What it meant, I could not be sure.

"I know this is a bad time for my curiosity, Mr. Donaldson," said Holmes, "but was part of your stepfather's diet honey?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Donaldson replied. "His physician had warned him to avoid certain things. He was forced to refrain from eating beef or pork except on special occasions. Any rich foods were also banned to him. No cream for his tea or coffee. No butter. Things like that."

"I see," Holmes said. "In place of the butter he used honey, then?"

"Just so," Donaldson confirmed.

"I see this was not a special occasion," Holmes said, indicating the remains of the fish.

"No," Donaldson replied. "We were here to discuss his planned wedding."

"Wedding?" I asked, somewhat surprised. Mr. Ward had been in his fifties and closer to sixty years than fifty.

"Indeed," Donaldson said. "I suppose I will need to tell Miss Albrecht."

"A young woman, then," mused Holmes.

I thought it was rather unseemly to discuss the age of the dead man's fiancé while his corpse lay at our very feet, but held my tongue. Mr. Donaldson appeared not to have taken offense, so it was not actually my place to speak.

"More of a spinster, Mr. Holmes," Donaldson said. "She is, I believe, thirty. They met while he was on a business trip to Prussia."

"She is still on the continent?" asked my friend.

"No," Donaldson said. "Here in London. She arrived in June and has resided in the Brown Hotel so that they could be closer to one another while planning the event. I don't know how she will receive the news. Badly, I fear."

"I imagine so," replied Holmes and then fell silent.

We had only a few more minutes to wait before a constable and a pair of hospital attendants arrived to take away the mortal remains of Mr. Ward. Mr. Donaldson and his sister accompanied them out the door.

As soon as the sad party departed Wilson came on the scene with two of his waiters. The waiters began policing up the plates and dishes. Holmes asked them to stop.

"But why, Mr. Holmes?" asked the maître d', clearly as confused as I was.

"I'm sorry to upset you, Wilson," said Holmes softly. "This is a crime scene and you will need to send for a representative of Scotland Yard."

"A crime scene, sir?" Wilson asked, his eyes wide with shock. Crimes simply did not happen in Simpson's. It was not possible.

"Murder, to be exact," Holmes told him. "Keep this quiet. You don't want more notice taken of these events than is inevitable."

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes." Wilson motioned to his waiters to come closer to him. "Albert, you go fetch a constable and ask him to send to… Well tell him we need and inspector, I suppose. David, go back to your tables. Send young Michael to me here."

The waiters gave quick nods and smoothly departed on their errands. Wilson looked to Holmes for instructions.

"There is nothing more that you can do, Wilson," Holmes told him. "Only be on hand when the Yard's man arrives. I'll need you to confirm a fact for me."

"Very well, sir," said the maître d. "I'll have Michael stand watch just outside the screen. He'll keep the other guests from intruding, sir."

"Very good." Holmes gave an approving nod and Wilson departed.

"How do you know it is murder, Holmes?" I asked sotto voce.

"I cannot yet confirm it, Watson," he replied just as softly. "Note the cruet on the table."

"With the honey? Yes," I said.

"Do you see anything different about it?" Holmes asked in that way that suggested I should.

I looked closely. It was a clear glass cruet like many you might find in any restaurant. Its stopper was in, though I did note a thin trickle of honey descending from the spout. The honey appeared no different than any other sample of the sweet substance I had ever seen. And then it struck me. The cruet did not quite match the salt and pepper shakers. It was very close to the same pattern, but it had two more lines ground into its design than the shakers had. I told Holmes of my observation.

"My, Watson, you have greatly improved," he fairly purred.

"How does that indicate murder has been done?" I asked.

"That alone does not," he said. "I believe a chemical analysis of the contents will show the honey is quite deadly."

"Poisoned?" I asked.

"Not precisely," he said with a thin smile. "I have to admire the cunning and preparation this crime took, Watson. The subtlety! The patience!"

"Will you please explain, Holmes?"

"The honey, Watson, has not been poisoned," said he. "It is poison."

I frowned my confusion at him.

"Bees, Watson," Holmes said seriously. "It is all about bees. Think back to your classic history."

Now that he said it there was something I remembered. A vague memory to be sure, but as a schoolboy I had studied Greece and Rome as part of the curriculum.

"I remember something about the legions under Pompey," I said. "It's a little vague in my mind, but didn't they get poisoned by honey?"

"Excellent, Watson," Holmes said pleased. "You surpass yourself tonight. You really do. What would you think of honey derived from the pollen of a plant such as rhododendron or bog-rosemary?"

"Bog-rosemary?" I whispered, my thoughts racing. Rhododendron was a very dangerous plant if consumed. Bog-rosemary was not as familiar to me, but I recalled its other name and my jaw fell open. "Andromeda? It can be processed to distill a potent medicine for the treatment of high blood pressure, Holmes."

"And if it were ingested by a patient who was suffering from chronic heart disease?" he asked leadingly.

"Near certain death," I breathed, horrified. "We must go after Donaldson! Holmes, you've let him get away!"

"Calm yourself, Watson!" said Holmes, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I had a word with that constable who entered with the ambulance attendants. I told him to keep an eye on Mr. Donaldson. All will be well."

"But why did you not have Donaldson arrested immediately?" I demanded.

"I must perform a test of the honey," said Holmes, pointing to the cruet. "Without it, I have only supposition to present. It would not stand up even in a coroner's inquest."

"Mr. Holmes?" as familiar voice called from beyond the screen and an instant later our friend Lestrade popped his head between the panels. "I'm told you've concluded a murder has occurred."

Holmes detailed the situation, recounting the events as we had witnessed them. Wilson was called in to confirm that the cruet of honey was not the property of Simpson's. I supported Holmes' statement with my own, and I must say, Lestrade took all of it in with few interruptions. He seemed skeptical of Holmes' theory about the honey, but was willing to allow my friend to take a sample and also to deliver the remainder to one of the laboratories approved by Scotland Yard.

"This is all well and good, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, making notes in his leather bound pad. "What led you to suspect Mr. Donaldson?"

"He is quite well known in the rather eccentric community of bee culturists," Holmes explained. "I corresponded with him a few years ago after he published a monograph detailing the proper diet of bees and the harvesting of their honey. One of his methods was to confine the hive inside a conservatory where flowers of various sorts would be planted. By growing only one particular kind of flower during a season, he hoped to find the best tasting honey. His experiments, conducted under such controlled conditions, were admirable."

"And this Roman fellow, Pliny, he wrote down how a legion had been poisoned," Lestrade said, still making notes.

"Quite right, Inspector," said Holmes.

"And Mr. Donaldson would have known about that event?" asked Lestrade.

"Correct," said Holmes nodding. "Any bee fancier would know about that historic event and the results."

"What were Donaldson's motives?" I asked.

"I've had no time to look into the background of this family, Watson," said Holmes, "but I am fairly sure there is an inheritance involved. This woman Mr. Ward was engaged to wed was described as a spinster, yet she is only thirty. Miss Albrecht would not be too old to bear children. A natural heir to the family fortune would have a stronger claim than a stepson. Even a childless wife could expect a portion of the inheritance. That is the avenue I believe needs to be investigated."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I thank you," Lestrade said, scratching his head. "This all depends on the results of our lab's tests, but if it proves to be a fact, we'll need you to present your evidence."

In the end, Holmes was proven correct and our testimony was the linchpin in the trial that sent Mr. Robert Donaldson to the gallows. His sister was not charged and Holmes was able to clear her of any suspicion. I felt quite sorry for the young woman. In some measure, though, she came out well from the affair. Her late stepfather's fiancé took the girl under her wing and they retired to Prussia with Miss Donaldson's sizeable inheritance to support them comfortably.

Several weeks after the trial Holmes and I returned to Simpson's. This time it was for dinner. Wilson welcomed us warmly and we were waited upon, hand and foot. Nothing that night was too good for either Holmes or myself. At the end of the evening I asked for our bill.

"Bill, sir?" Wilson asked in return. He seemed confused.

"Yes, Wilson," I chuckled. "Our repast is complete. Our brandy is finished. We will retire from the field if only you will tell me how much I owe."

"Ah!" he said brightly and produced the usual slip.

"You forgot the total, Wilson," said I, frowning at the paper.

"Then the meal must be free, sir," replied Wilson with a smile. "May I get your coats?"

**The End**


	18. Visitors of the Unexpected Kind

Prompt from TemporarilyAbaft - An unexpected visitor drops by 221B one morning…

* * *

><p><strong>Visitors of the Unexpected Kind<strong>

John Watson rose somewhat later than his usual wont that particular seventeenth of December. He washed and shaved and put on fresh clothes as he did every morning. It was nearing eight o'clock and he was feeling peckish. Coffee with breakfast certainly sounded a good idea. He went down the short flight of stairs from his bedroom to the sitting room, smelling the pungent scent of Holmes' special blend of shag tobacco. Even for Holmes it was a bit early for a pipe. Something was up.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson said, crossing the room to the small dining table.

Holmes was sitting in his usual place, but unlike most mornings he did not have his nose buried in the latest edition of the Times or London Gazette. He was staring fixedly in the direction of the fireplace and puffing away at his pipe. Watson frowned and turned. He blinked. He blinked again. The reality or surreality of the situation crashed in on him and he jumped for the large desk, scrabbling at the drawer containing his revolver.

"Watson!" Holmes cried springing to his feet. "No!"

"But, Holmes!" Watson cried, finally getting the drawer to open. His hand lunged in and wrapped around the grip of his weapon.

"Do not, Watson!" Holmes cried, crossing to place himself between his friend and the creature lounging in front of the fire. "I've just fed him and he is quite docile."

"Get out of the way, Holmes!" warned the doctor.

"It would take more than one bullet to kill him, Watson," Holmes said. "Before you could fire twice he would be upon you and I doubt much that I would be able to save you or myself at that point."

Watson panted in deep breaths and looked around his friend and longtime flat mate. The creature, whatever it was, had raised its massive, froglike head and was looking at the pair of them sleepily.

"What is it?" Watson asked in a calmer tone.

"I cannot be certain, but I believe it may be a Barsoomian calot," said Holmes, turning to look over his shoulder at the pony-sized beast.

"A… A what?" Watson demanded incredulously.

"A Martian war dog, Watson," Holmes replied. "Now put away that revolver of yours while I try to understand this situation."

"A Martian war dog?" Watson demanded more stridently. He looked past Holmes again and examined the beast. Roughly the size of a Shetland pony with a distinctly froglike head, red eyes, a bristling black mane of quill-like hair, ten short legs and hairless skin the color of over ripe olives. "Just what in the name Zeus' elbow is a Martian war dog doing in our sitting room, Holmes? Did you let it in here?"

"I couldn't very well leave it on the landing for Mrs. Hudson to find, could I, Watson?"

"And you fed it?" Watson demanded, though he was a little more calm.

"He seemed restive and over curious about… well, about most everything," replied Holmes. "When he began to sample the bearskin rug I understood he had not eaten in some time."

"What did you feed him?" Watson asked, slipping his revolver back into the drawer.

"I'm afraid we will have to purchase two new hams and a new goose to replenish Mrs. Hudson's larder. He swallowed them down without chewing. Bones and all, right down the hatch, as the saying goes." Holmes glanced over his shoulder again and chuckled. "Come on, Watson. Settle yourself at the table and have some coffee. You'll be able to think more clearly once you've had breakfast."

Reluctantly, Watson did as his friend suggested, though, he moved his chair around so that he could keep the large animal in sight while he ate.

"What do you make of this, Watson?" Holmes asked once the doctor had finished his eggs and sliced ham. "I found it around his neck."

Holmes laid a long belt of strange leather in front of Watson. Upon the belt was a buckle wrought of bronze and a circular disk of the same material. Hieroglyphs of some kind were stamped into the disk, but Watson could not make heads or tails of them.

"It looks remarkably like a very large dog's collar, Holmes," said Watson. "It was on the creature?"

"The calot. Yes," said Holmes. "About his neck. I've been studying it for the past twenty minutes."

"And your conclusion?" Watson asked.

"The same as yours," replied Holmes. "I can make nothing of the markings, of course. Nothing to compare them to for translation. Turn the disc over, Watson."

The doctor did and squinted at the markings revealed.

"Woola, J. C., Helium," Watson read aloud.

The creature rose and ambled smoothly over to him, sinking onto its haunches an arm's length away.

"I believe that is his name," observed Holmes.

"Yes…" agreed Watson nervously. "Nice dog. Stay."

Woola cocked his massive head to one side as if trying to understand the human.

"Here, Watson," said Holmes pushing a covered tureen across the table. "Try giving him one of those sausages. See what he does."

"Are you quite mad, Holmes?" Watson asked, glaring at his friend. "The beast might take my arm off."

"Nothing of the kind, old fellow," Holmes snorted. "He accepted two hams and a large goose from me and he was a perfect gentleman about it."

Watson continued to glare at his friend, but saw the amusement in Holmes' eyes. The doctor raised his chin and stiffened his upper lip before removing the lid from the tureen. Woola watched carefully, his mouth opening slightly as Watson selected one of the thick sausages. The calot shifted eagerly, but did not rise.

"Want this?" Watson asked in the tone he usually reserved for very young children.

Woola bounced on his front feet and threw his head up. Clearly he did want the sausage. Hesitantly Watson offered it to him and was startled when the animal's jaws split open nearly three quarters the length of its head. Watson laid the sausage inside the rows and rows and rows of tusks, snatching his fingers back before the jaws close with a snap like an oversized and meaty mouse trap. Woola swallowed and opened his mouth again, virtually squirming with delight. Watson smiled in spite of himself and placed another sausage in the creature's mouth. Three more sausages followed and then Watson was forced to present the empty dish to the calot to prove there were no more to be had. Woola licked the tureen and then pushed his head into Watson's chest as if saying thank you.

"See?" Holmes asked smugly. "A perfect gentleman."

"He does seem rather friendly," Watson agreed with a laugh, attempting to fend off the beast's affection. "Where did he come from, Holmes?"

"Mars, Watson," Holmes replied easily. "There are three questions that I think are far more important."

"And what are those?" Watson asked, finally pushing Woola back and getting him to sit down again.

"The first is: How did our friend get here?" said Holmes relighting his pipe. "Second: How do we get him back?"

"And the third?" Watson asked.

"What the devil do we do with him if we can't?" Holmes settled back in his chair and watched the calot as it sat patiently.

"I have a question you haven't answered yet, Holmes," said Watson.

"And that is?"

"How do you know it is a Martian war dog?" Watson waved his hand at the creature. "What about it tells you it is from Mars? I can see many scars from old battles so the supposition that it is some kind of war dog does not surprise me, but from Mars? From a world we have only glimpsed through the most powerful of astronomical equipment?"

"Have you not read the letters and tales in that American magazine of yours?" Holmes asked a little surprised.

"No," said Watson, glancing over at his chair where the magazine in question lay tucked under several professional journals. "My brother sent that to me. He thought the Yankee adventurism of the stories would appeal to my literary leanings. I much prefer Verne and Wells."

"I confess, Doctor, I felt much the same," Holmes said. "However, lacking other occupation while you were out on your rounds one day, I did page through it. Its contents were of very little interest to me. One story stood out, however. It's the tale of Captain John Carter. It was transcribed by his nephew and reminded me slightly of your style. Only in the broadest strokes, mind you. But in that tale such a creature as the one we have here is described in great detail. What's more, I am nearly certain it is the very creature sitting in front of you now."

"Alright, Holmes," Watson sighed. "Then let's get to your first question."

"There is mention in the tale of an event by which Captain Carter was mysteriously transported to Mars," said Holmes, clinching his pipe between his teeth. "Unfortunately, there are almost no clues as to the nature of the event. It is so vague as to be impossible to recreate. However, it is the only way I can think of that Woola came to be here."

"And that leaves us with no answer to your second question," Watson sighed. He poured himself another cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair to regard the massive, imposing and fearsome Woola.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed with a nod. "Which brings us to my third question."

"What to do with the brute," Watson said. "I suppose we could rent him out as a sort of disposal for unwanted livestock."

"Potentially profitable, but I believe the knackers would soon protest," said Holmes. "We might be forced to purchase some sort of license for him, as well."

Sitting and contemplating the calot, the pair could come up with no solution to any of the questions. Their musings were interrupted by a knock at their door. Watson rose to answer it, expecting Mrs. Hudson to have come to retrieve the breakfast dishes. Instead, he found a tall, well-muscled, sun-darkened man standing on the landing, wearing the most bizarre, indecent and warlike garb the good doctor had ever seen. The man was practically naked save for some leather straps and a large plate of metal that covered his chest. A pair of swords were hung on his left hip and a long dagger on his right. A strange pistol rested in a holster next to the dagger. The man smiled in a friendly fashion and was about to speak when Watson was bowled from his feet and trampled.

Woola danced and rolled in front of the strange man as Watson extricated himself from the friendly melee. Holmes came quickly to Watson's aid and soon the doctor was upon his feet and staring at the very strange pair. Finally the man admonished the calot in an unfamiliar language and rose to his full height.

"I apologize, gentlemen," the stranger said in a rich Virginian accent. "I hope my boy here hasn't been too much of a bother."

"Not a bother, sir," said Holmes. "Only a charming puzzle."

"That is a relief, sir," said the Virginian. "My name is Captain John Carter, formerly of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia."

"Now residing in the city of Helium upon Barsoom," Holmes said.

"Yes," said Captain Carter, slightly puzzled. "How did you know that?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," said the detective. "It is my business to know what others do not. May I present my particular friend, Doctor John Watson."

"A pleasure to meet you both," Captain Carter said with a bow. "I hope Woola didn't hurt you, Doctor. He can get out of hand sometimes."

"Not at all," said Watson graciously. "Won't you come in, Captain?"

"Thank you, no," Captain Carter declined. "I'm afraid I must return to Barsoom as soon as may be. I only came looking for my calot. May I wish you a good day and compliments of the season, gentlemen?"

"Thank you, Captain," said Holmes, extending his hand. "And may we wish you the same?"

"Thank you," said the captain and shook Holmes' hand in friendly fashion.

"A safe journey to you, sir," said Watson, also extending his hand.

"Thank you, Doctor," replied Carter.

He bowed again before turning to go. Watson and Holmes stood in their open doorway watching until the man and his calot had left 221B and then they closed their door and returned to their chairs at the table.

"That was the most unexpected visit I think we shall ever have, Holmes," said Watson, reaching for the stack of newspapers on the table.

"Let us hope it is, old fellow," said Holmes in a musing voice. "We forgot to give him Woola's collar, though. Silly of us."

There came a knock at the door and both men stood and faced it as Holmes bid the caller to enter. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and looked to them both.

"A gentleman come to call on you, Mr. Holmes," she said. "He doesn't have a card, but said his name was Mr. John Clayton, Viscount Greystoke."

Holmes and Watson exchanged a look and then Holmes said, "Show him up, Mrs. Hudson."

**The End**

* * *

><p>AN: Woola, Captain John Carter and Mr. John Clayton, Viscount Greystoke (AKA Tarzan) are all creations of Edgar Rice Burroughs.<p> 


	19. Remember, Remember the 18th of December

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls - Scotland Yard is having a Christmas party

* * *

><p><strong>Remember, Remember the 18<strong>**th**** of December**

"Inspector Lestrade didn't want me to bring this to you, Mr. Holmes," said Inspector Bradstreet. "At least, not at first."

"At first I thought it was nothing," Lestrade said defensively. "Just a sort of prank to put the wind up me."

"And what has changed your mind?" Holmes asked him.

"Finding out about these," Lestrade said, producing several scraps of paper identical to the one Holmes had received from Bradstreet. "One was sent to me on the sixth. Inspector Barton got his on the eighth. Inspector Brown's came on the twelfth. Now Gregson got one this morning."

Holmes took the scraps and examined them carefully. Each showed signs of having been roughly handled. One had even been crumpled and subsequently smoothed out. Holmes read the single line of handwriting scrawled across each scrap.

_Remember, remember the 18__th__ of December,_

"Written in pencil," murmured Holmes. "Yes. Look here, gentlemen. All from the same pad and one written on top of the others. See the indentation?"

Both inspectors leaned a little closer to peer over Holmes' shoulders. He held the papers at an angle to the oil lamp on his desk, which showed the shallow depressions from words written on the sheets that had been above the others.

"All the writing looks the same to me," Lestrade commented.

"I agree," said Holmes seriously.

"Could it be some sort of bad joke, Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet asked, sounding hopeful.

"There is very little to go on," Holmes said, continuing his inspection. "There were no envelopes?"

"None," Bradstreet said.

"Mine was slipped under my office door," Lestrade said. "I believe Gregson found his on his blotter."

"Mine was on the seat of my chair, though it could have been blown there when I opened my door," Bradstreet said.

"So they are being delivered by someone who has full access to Scotland Yard headquarters." Holmes nodded. "That narrows the field of suspects."

"Disturbing in its way," Lestrade said and began to pace. "Hard to believe whoever this is, is part of the force."

"And yet that's precisely what it seems," Bradstreet grumbled.

"And why this line?" Lestrade demanded of nobody. "I mean, everyone knows the rhyme! Why the change?"

"What special event is taking place on the eighteenth?" Holmes asked.

"Parliament isn't in session," Bradstreet said. "There's been no mention of anything like a banquet or ball involving the Queen."

"We've inquired of what friends we have in the navy and the army and they can tell us nothing," put in Lestrade.

"The eighteenth," mused Holmes. "There was something…"

The tall detective rose from his chair, frowning across the room at his mantelpiece. He stepped around the desk and crossed the intervening space to grasp the handle of the jackknife which held his correspondence pinned there. With a quick wrenching motion he pulled it free and took the stack of envelopes with his other hand. Quickly he shuffled through them until he came to one that was stiffer than all the others. The envelope was embossed with the seal of Scotland Yard. A flick of the knife's blade and the envelope was open. From it he drew the ornate, though cheap, invitation he had been sent several weeks prior.

"Perhaps I have the answer to our conundrum," said Holmes.

"The Christmas party?" wondered Lestrade.

"It is this evening. The eighteenth," Bradstreet said, his eyes going a little wide. "Gunpowder, treason and plot!"

"Oh my Lord!" Lestrade practically shouted.

Holmes calmly crossed back to his desk and spread the scraps of paper into a row.

"Inspector Lestrade," he said, "which of these was sent to you?"

"This one," said Lestrade without hesitation. "I remember this corner being torn."

"And which was sent to you, Bradstreet?" asked Holmes moving Lestrade's to the far left.

"Here," said the other inspector. "This dip where the page tore unevenly from the pad. That one is mine."

"And when did it come to you?" Holmes demanded, laying his fingers on the scrap.

"The tenth, Mr. Holmes," Bradstreet told him.

Holmes slid it to the third place in the row. With quick, sure precision he rearranged the remaining scraps of paper until he was certain they were in chronological order.

"These first three, gentlemen," breathed Holmes in the way the inspectors knew meant he was on to something. "These seem all to have been written by a person who was perfectly calm, do they not? But this next one is in a more agitated hand. This final one is almost a scribble."

"What does that tell you, Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet asked.

"Seems clear the man is something of a lunatic," commented Lestrade. "Probably finding it difficult to hold himself in check. He's taunting us and enjoying it."

"I might find that a plausible explanation, Lestrade," said Holmes coolly, "if the writing were a man's."

"A woman wrote these?" Lestrade asked doubtfully.

"I told you the writing was more feminine," said Bradstreet.

"The Rs don't look feminine, Bradstreet," Lestrade grumbled defensively.

"Focus, gentlemen," Holmes cut them off before they could begin to squabble. "While the Rs are very strong the rest of the letters have a distinctly female look. Consider, also, these were left in your offices. One inspector after another received this same warning."

"Two days apart," Lestrade said.

"Seems odd," Bradstreet said, stroking his chin in thought.

"Perhaps the delay was to see if the warnings were being taken to heart," mused Lestrade.

"Very good, Lestrade," Holmes complimented the younger man. "I agree with you. Lestrade, your note was slipped under your door."

"That's right," said Lestrade. "I found it on my floor when I entered my office."

"You keep your door locked when you are not in the building," said Holmes.

"We all do," Bradstreet said.

"That's telling in itself, for the other notes were found on desks or the seats of chairs," Holmes told them. "Inspector Lestrade, your office is to the right of the main corridor. Bradstreet, yours is to the left as is Gregson's. What of these other gentlemen?"

"Barton is on the left, also," Bradstreet replied instantly, excited but not knowing where Holmes' reasoning was taking them.

"Brown's office is directly across from mine," Lestrade said.

"Do you know where he found his note?" asked Holmes.

"Slipped under his door," Bradstreet said. "Same as Lestrade's"

"And these others were all either on the desk, or the chair in your case, Bradstreet." Holmes rubbed his hands together and smiled. "A pretty little picture. Scotland Yard employs a cleaning service, does it not?"

"It does," Lestrade said, his eyes flicking over the notes as he began to see where Holmes was going. "White Apron has the contract. Done good service for us."

"I agree," Bradstreet put in. "Always trustworthy."

"There are two cleaning women on your floor." Holmes was not asking. "One cleans the offices on one side of the corridor. The other cleans the offices on the other side."

"That's right." Lestrade nodded.

"They split at the T and work their way round the sides until they meet in the back of the building." Bradstreet stood staring at Holmes. Understanding blossomed on his face.

"It's your cleaner, Bradstreet!" Lestrade cried out. He turned for the door with a purposeful stride. "We'll go 'round right now and arrest her!"

"No, gentlemen!" shouted Holmes, moving to cut them off. They stared at him. "Can you not see? She is a friend!"

"Writing threatening notes like those?" Lestrade demanded.

"Warnings," Holmes replied. "She is attempting to warn you."

"Warn us, Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet asked. "Why didn't she just come out and tell one of us what is going on?"

"Most likely she is afraid," Holmes explained. "There are several possibilities."

"Could be her husband is the one making plans to do harm," Lestrade agreed. He turned and began to pace as he thought. "Or a blood relative."

"Her husband must be as old as she is," Bradstreet said. "She's near sixty. Might be her son."

"Has she got a brother?" Lestrade asked him.

"We should find this woman," Holmes said firmly. "Not to arrest her, but to question her. Clearly she knows something. It may have nothing to do with your Christmas party. Whatever it is, it is something dangerous."

"A plot of some kind," Lestrade murmured, deep in thought.

"Her name is Mrs. Sheaves," Bradstreet said. "We can get her address from the cleaning service."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. "We'll inform you of what we discover."

"Good luck, gentlemen," Holmes said, though he felt some concern that they might fail to discover what they needed.

Hours later Holmes was working out a new melody on his violin when Billy knocked. Holmes bade him to enter.

"Message for you, Mr. Holmes," the page said and crossed the room to hand him an envelope.

"Thank you, Billy," said Holmes passing him a farthing.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_Come at once to 332 Barrowsford Place. Information from Mrs. Sheaves indicates threat to the Yard._

_Bradstreet_

"Billy!" Holmes called downstairs. "Summon a hansom! Quickly!"

Holmes darted into his bedroom, casting off his dressing gown as he did. Moments later he was riding in a hansom at a good clip for Barrowsford Place and the amusement hall the Yarders had rented for the evening. Though he remained outwardly calm, Holmes' mind was racing through possibilities. _Gunpowder, treason and plot_ ran alongside his thoughts. The chief possibility was that someone was going to detonate a bomb to eliminate as many inspectors and constables as possible in one fell swoop. The city would be plunged into chaos if that should happen. Though they were a dull lot, the Yard was perfectly adequate for maintaining order under most circumstances.

The hansom drew to a halt in front of the amusement hall just at sunset. Holmes piled out, paid the cabman and made for the entrance to the hall. Lestrade and Bradstreet met him in the lobby.

"What have you found, gentlemen?" Holmes asked as they fell in next to him.

"It's bad, Mr. Holmes," Bradstreet said in a worried tone.

"Best if you take a look for yourself, I think," Lestrade said with a shake of his head.

They burst through the inner doors and Holmes slammed to a stop, his eyes wide with astonishment. All about were the men of the Yard with their ladies and children. All smiled and raised their glasses of punch.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes!" the crowd of families cheered and laughed.

"What are they doing here?" demanded Holmes, utterly at a loss.

"Wishing you a Merry Christmas, Holmes," said Watson coming from the side with Mary on his arm. He handed Holmes a glass of punch and clicked his own against it in the manner of a toast.

"The threat to the Yard?" Holmes stammered.

"We knew you wouldn't come unless there were some dire emergency," Lestrade laughed.

"You've declined every year, sir," said Bradstreet, putting his arm around his wife as she came up and handed him a glass of punch.

"You lied to me?" Holmes said, bewildered.

"Consider it a degree of repayment for all the times you've left us to wander around, bumping our heads into things," laughed Lestrade.

"We couldn't have done it without the help of Dr. Watson, though," chuckled Bradstreet and raised his glass to Watson.

Holmes looked from one to the next. Slowly a smile spread across his face. They had certainly fooled him. He had had no idea Lestrade or Bradstreet could act so well.

"To your performance, inspectors," Holmes said, toasting them. Turning to Watson he said, "And to your playwright."

They all laughed together and music began to play. Mrs. Bradstreet took Holmes' hat, stick and coat. And Mary took his arm, drawing him out to the dance floor. It was a good party and the climax of the evening was when the Yarders presented Holmes with a brand new microscope of excellent quality. Embarrassed, Holmes was only able to say five words.

"Thank you and Merry Christmas!"

**The End.**


	20. The Mystery of the Monolith

Prompt from silvermouse - A mysterious object/creature/person turns up, and not even Mycroft knows anything about it.

* * *

><p><strong>The Mystery of the Monolith<strong>

Our hansom pulled up just short of a police barricade on Vaughn Lane near the northern edge of London proper. It was a singularly middle class neighborhood with typical middle class family homes and nothing in particular to remark upon save for three constables with rifles standing guard in front of a pair of sawhorses painted bright yellow with black stripes. Holmes and I climbed down and were immediately accosted by the sergeant in charge of the barricade. I noticed the man had a bandage wrapped round his head under his helmet.

"I'll have to ask you gentlemen to return to your cab, sirs," said the sergeant sternly, yet politely.

"I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. Watson," said Holmes in his usual dignified manner. "My brother, Mycroft Holmes has sent for us."

"Is that so, Mr. Holmes?" demanded the sergeant with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"Here is the telegram he sent," Holmes replied, unruffled. He pulled the paper from his pocket and showed it to the sergeant. "You may read it yourself, if you like."

The sergeant glanced over the message and looked up at us, assessing the validity of the summons.

"Constable Reams," the sergeant said over his shoulder without looking away. "Go and find Mr. Holmes. Request he come here."

"He's right in front of you, Sergeant Willis," said Constable Reams.

Sergeant Willis closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving slightly as he counted to ten, or so I thought. Finally he said, "Go and find Mr. Mycroft Holmes and request that he come here to confirm the identity of these men."

A few minutes elapsed before the tall, broad figure of the elder Holmes arrived, accompanied by Constable Reams who seemed strangely distracted. By the time the pair reached us Mycroft was puffing and blowing from the exertion of walking down the lane to where we stood.

"Sherlock," he wheezed. "I see you got my telegram."

"Of course," replied my friend.

"It's quite alright, Sergeant Baker," said Mycroft.

"Willis, sir," said the sergeant through his teeth.

"Really? Mycroft asked, looking puzzled.

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Willis said with a sigh.

"I do beg your pardon," said Mycroft with another puzzled look. "This gentleman really is my brother and his associate is Dr. Watson. Allow them to pass, if you will."

"On your authority, sir?" Sergeant Baker asked evenly.

Mycroft fixed him with a withering gaze before replying, "Of course on my authority, Ba… Willis. Allow them to pass."

Sergeant Willis was not overly impressed by Mycroft's withering gaze, but he waved to his men to stand aside.

"Insufferable jobsworth!" grumbled Mycroft as soon as we had left the sergeant and his constables behind. "Been butting in on every aspect of this investigation. 'You shouldn't touch that, sir.' 'That's what I did, sir.' 'Should I call an ambulance, sir?' I believe his piles are troubling him. Makes the man crank, if you understand me."

"I should think it was his corns, brother," Sherlock said with a glance back. "His piles, I think, are quite under control at the moment."

"It might have something to do with that head wound of his," I said.

"Perhaps," Mycroft replied, sounding as though he really did not care. "We've more important business to attend."

"And what is this business?" asked Sherlock.

"Something I can't explain," Mycroft replied and turned between a pair of buildings. "This is it."

Holmes and I stopped in our tracks at sight of the thing. I have no way of knowing what passed through Holmes' mind at that moment, but astonishment was all I experienced. Standing on the cobbles before us was what appeared to be a perfectly smooth black block, roughly twice the height of a man, some six feet wide and perhaps two feet thick. I could not tell if it were stone, metal or some other substance. It simply stood there between the buildings as if it had always been there and always would be.

"What is it?" I asked, awe coloring my voice.

"I do not know," Mycroft said, frowning. "That is why I sent for you two. I... I did send for you, didn't I?"

"Where did it come from?" Sherlock asked without responding to that last. "And why does it look as though there was a rugby scrum in this lane?"

"Again, I do not know," said Mycroft. "The residents heard nothing. They saw nothing. They felt nothing. It was discovered by the local postman while making his rounds. He was discovered by Sergeant Baker… Sergeant Willis thrashing his mail bag on the ground and screeching like a baboon."

"How extraordinary," I said. "Is that how Sergeant Willis was injured?"

"No," Mycroft replied, looking uneasy. "We found the pair of them screeching like baboons and they attacked us. Seems something overcame their better sense. A crack on the head soon set Baker right."

"Willis," Sherlock corrected his brother.

"Shouldn't he be in hospital under observation?" I asked.

"He'll be alright for now," said Mycroft. "I have my reasons, though."

"Why have you blocked off the streets?" I asked.

"Just a precaution for the moment, Doctor," Mycroft said evenly.

"What have you done so far?" asked Sherlock.

"I've taken measurements," Mycroft said, handing Sherlock a notepad. "Some rough calculations of weight based on its volume. I included several kinds of stone and metal in those calculations."

"Why not wood?" Sherlock asked.

"There is no sign of wood grain," the elder Holmes said.

"Does anyone else feel some sort of vibration?" I asked.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "It's very subtle. I noticed it when I first walked up to the thing, Doctor."

"There's also a quiet hum," Sherlock said, still reading through his brother's notes. "What did you feel when you touched it, Mycroft?"

"An odd notion." Mycroft rubbed his chin and looked down.

"I should think touching it would be among the first experiments one would try," Sherlock said, glancing at his brother.

"Oh, it was," said Mycroft. "I didn't mean the notion of touching the thing was odd. I meant that when I did touch it, I had an odd notion."

"And what was that?" I asked, very curious. Mycroft seemed the last person on Earth who would have an odd notion. Even less likely than Sherlock.

"I had the idea that I should pick up a bone and start smashing things with it," Mycroft admitted after a brief pause. "Oddest thing that has ever gone through my mind."

"And what did you do?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well, there were no bones lying about so I did nothing," Mycroft replied testily. "Didn't stop Sergeant Baker and the postman, though. Poor chaps. Well, what do you make of it all, brother?"

"Your mathematics seem correct," Sherlock said, apparently ignoring his brother's repeated mistake. "I note, though, that the… monolith, I suppose we could call it, has not displaced any of the cobblestones upon which it sits. Even especially old and well seated cobbles would be disturbed or dislodged to some extent if it were made of granite or even iron."

"Has anyone tried to push it over?" I asked.

"No, Doctor," said Mycroft. "I felt it unwise to tamper with it until we had a better understanding of its nature."

"Who would deposit it here?" I wondered aloud. "And why?"

I pushed past the two Holmeses and stepped up to the thing. It really was quite smooth and very black. I felt myself, somehow, drawn to it. It was as if it called to me, asking me to place my hand upon its surface. And that's just what I did. My fingers felt only a slickness under them. It was not the sort of feeling you might have touching an oil coated surface, or even polished glass. It was slick exactly the way sand paper isn't. And as my eyes lingered upon that utter blackness I imagined I saw pinpoints of light, very faintly. The longer I looked the more real and defined they became. Whole vistas of stars blossomed before my eyes. Galaxies swirled and danced before me. And I suddenly felt I must find a bone and begin smashing things with it.

I woke to find both Holmes brothers pinning me against a wall, prying my cane from my grip.

"Watson!" shouted Sherlock. His hat was off and a knot was rising from his scalp. "Stop it, Watson!"

"What were you thinking, man?" demanded Mycroft. "You nearly killed us."

"I what?" I asked, bewildered. "I saw stars. It was filled with stars."

"And then you had the urge to smash things with a bone?" Mycroft asked, his eyes wide.

"Yes," I said, sheepishly.

"Mycroft, I suggest you contact a construction company," said Sherlock, releasing me. "One that deals in heavy stone slabs. They should have the equipment necessary to move the monolith."

"Move it?" I wondered.

"Can't have it sitting here blocking traffic or causing curious passersby to start beating each other with clubs, can we?" Holmes said, rubbing his head.

And so the monolith was moved. Several of the stone masons were severely injured when they failed to heed Mycroft's warning and did not wear gloves. Three were sent to hospital with cranial fractures and a fourth with a broken arm. The remainder were placed under arrest until they calmed down enough to complete their work. I don't know where the monolith is now. Mycroft says it is safely locked away within a place known only as Warehouse 12.

**The End**

* * *

><p>AN: I'm not all that satisfied with this one, but I think I'm starting to run out of ideas. Sorry to disappoint.<p>

AN: I'm returning to work on the 20th and this might be the last of my stories for a while. I will try to continue, but I may simply be too tired to do so after my shift is over with.


	21. The Mystery of the Heffernan Theater

Prompt from Sendai - The concert tickets

* * *

><p><strong>The Mystery of the Heffernan Theater<strong>

The year 1890 brought many strange and perplexing cases to my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, I was unable to take part in many of them. My practice in Paddington and my marriage to Mary had supplanted the adventurous times I had shared with Holmes, but I confess, I missed them. It was a fortunate circumstance that brought us together again. I stopped into Loring's Café for lunch while out on my rounds on the nineteenth of December and as I was going in, Holmes was coming out.

"Watson!" cried he, clearly as delighted as I.

"Holmes!" I said with a smile.

"What are you doing in this part of the city?" Holmes asked, shaking me by the hand.

"Making my rounds," I told him. "Mr. Pettigrew has a bad case of gout. Terrible diet and he won't listen to me. Very stubborn. I suppose you're here on a case, Holmes."

"No," he laughed. "I stopped in for a sandwich and tea."

"Well, would you care for another cup?" I asked hopefully.

"I'll join you, Watson," he replied. "Gladly."

We went into the café and after I placed our order we discussed the usual things old friends do. Mrs. Hudson was well. Mary was happy. Lestrade, Gregson and the others at the Yard we had come to know and call friends over the years were all quite well. Mention of them caused Holmes to frown, however.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked just as the waiter deposited my meal and our tea.

"Have you been reading the newspapers, Watson?" he asked. "In particular the articles about the as yet unsolved string of murders."

"The Millionaire Murders?" I asked.

"A misnomer, but yes," said he with a nod.

"It has been difficult to overlook them," I said. "One every week. Always on a Monday night."

"Not always." Holmes frowned into his tea. It was plain to see something grave troubled my friend. "The one Monday there was no murder was the twenty first of October."

"Have you an explanation?" I asked.

"I would be interested in hearing what you think, Watson," Holmes said.

"Me?" I was rather surprised. I had not been involved with this case. I hadn't been particularly active in anything to do with detection for quite some time.

"I have found your observations to be quite useful in the past, Doctor," he said with a smile.

That was quite a compliment and I did find the prospect of being involved once again all but irresistible. I said, "Could the criminal have been out of town for some reason? He has been stealing some very expensive items. Perhaps he was taking them to a fence in another city."

"I have agents looking into that," Holmes said. "Anything else?"

"Let me think," said I, playing for time. "The murderer is obviously of a criminal bent. Likely he lives in a very rough part of the city with similarly rough neighbors. Perhaps he was under arrest on some other charge."

"Excellent, Watson," said Holmes with a pleased look in his eyes. "It is a simple solution."

"Now tell me, Holmes, what you think," I said. "Those two possibilities must have occurred to you. What is your explanation?"

"I haven't one," he admitted. "I did think of those possibilities. Another is that our murderer was ill or injured and could not perform the robbery. It has even occurred to me that the home he had selected to burgle was too well guarded. Or there might have been a party at the residence that night. Far too many explanations could be made to fit. That single Monday is important. I am sure of it. What's more, Watson, if I can discover the reason, I can solve this case."

"Aside from their evident wealth, what have the victims in common?" I asked.

"Two of the men were members of the same club," Holmes said. "All of them smoked, but different tobaccos. Three of them are former military men. Six of them regularly attended concerts. Four of them were ardent gamblers. Two were heavily invested in the railroad. Again there are too many instances where their habits crossed over."

"Was Sir Charles one who regularly attended concerts?" I asked.

"Sir Charles Vanderburgh?" asked Holmes. "You knew him?"

"Only in passing," I said. "Mary and I saw him and his wife the Sunday evening before he was killed."

"Really?" Holmes leaned forward. "Where did you see him, Watson?"

"The Heffernan Theater," I said. "The orchestra was playing selections of Bach. You know how Mary enjoys Bach."

"Yes," he said absently, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder…"

"What is it, Holmes?"

"It may be nothing, Watson," he said and rose to his feet. "It could be everything! Can you make arrangements to accompany me to the concert this Sunday?"

"I suppose so, Holmes," I said, smiling. "Mary will be delighted."

"No, Watson," he said and gave me a very intent look. "Your charming wife must not go with us."

"But, Holmes," I began to protest.

"As you love her, Watson, leave her safe at home."

I frowned at him and began to suspect he had concluded something from our conversation.

"Very well, Holmes," I said. "She won't like it."

"I will make it up to her," said he, earnestly. "To you both. Now, you must forgive me. I have some facts to check into before Sunday. I will call round for you Sunday evening after dinner."

Before I could so much as say goodbye Holmes was gone. I finished my meal and tea and then went about my rounds. That evening I described to Mary the strange encounter with my old friend and told her of the promise I had made. She was disappointed that she and I would not be going to the concert together, but then she did something peculiar. She laughed and clapped her hands.

"What is it, Mary?" I asked.

"I don't know, dear," she said, smiling. Her expression turned more serious and she said, "I think, though, that Mr. Holmes has some plan he fears would be dangerous to my safety. You will need to bring your revolver with you and that excellent cane Mr. Holmes gave you for your birthday."

The cane she spoke of was more than a simple stick of wood. Within its shaft was hid a sixteen inch blade of Toledo steel with a needle fine tip. Truly, I had married one in a thousand.

Sunday night came and Holmes picked me up and we went to the Heffernan Theater. We found our seats and I settled back a little uncomfortably. I felt the need to glance around a bit more than usual. Holmes had chosen the seat to my left and the man on my right looked to have been in the military in his younger days. As well dressed as he was, perhaps he had been an officer, but he had more the bearing of an enlisted man. Beyond him was another man of similar characteristics. To Holmes left was a man I recognized from years ago. It took me a moment to place him, and then I remember a stuffed bear Holmes now kept on the shelf in his bedroom. The last time I had seen Harper he had been a lowly sergeant of police. To see him that night I had to wonder if he had inherited a small fortune from a wealthy relative.

For his part Holmes relaxed back in his seat and seemed entirely absorbed in the fine music. The fingers of his left hand twitched, mimicking the movements of the lead violinist. Upon his lips was a thin, satisfied smile.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask what that accomplished, Holmes," I said after the concert was over with.

"Not here, Watson," he said in a low voice. "In the cab. I promise."

And so it was. We took the third cab that came our way and covered ourselves with the blankets provided.

"Now, Watson, to answer you," said Holmes once we were underway. "What our evening has accomplished remains to be seen. However, after our conversation at the café the other day I looked into the record book of the Heffernan Theater. What I found should not have surprised me, but it did. A very pleasant surprise, I must say."

"Holmes, I really am not following you."

"I'm coming to it, Watson," he said and patted my knee. "Bradstreet who has been investigating the murders from the start has been operating under the assumption that the murders were committed at random. The victims selected only for their wealth. For a time I had to agree with him. I was very near giving up on ever catching the fellow. And then you and I bumped into each other and I knew I had the answer."

"Knew?" I asked. "What answer?"

"There was a connection between all of the victims," said Holmes. "And there was a reason there was no murder on the twenty first of October."

"And what was the connection?" I asked.

"The concerts," he said. "I recalled seeing concert tickets on Mr. Harold Emmerling's night table. And I recalled one article in the Gazette mentioning that Mr. Blanchford and his wife had attended a concert prior to his murder. And you told me about poor Sir Charles' attendance of a concert. That gave me nine out of twelve victims whose whereabouts on Sunday night could be traced to the Heffernan Theater."

"And the other three, Holmes?" I asked, suspecting I knew already.

"That was why I took a look at the theater's record book," he said. "All of the victims not only attended concerts there, they were all seated in the five seats we and the constables occupied this evening."

"I recognized Sergeant Harper," I said. "The two men to my right were also constables?"

"Experienced men, Watson," Holmes said. "I chose them for their age and their competence. Common as clay, all three, but not well known in the more exalted circles of society. I took them to Cohan and Dunwood, my haberdashers, and had them fitted by Jacob Cohan himself. Finest tailor in all of London."

"Wait a moment, Holmes," I interrupted. "If the murderer is picking his victims from the people who sit in that row, have you not placed those men in dire danger? Good God, man! Mary!"

"Calm yourself, Watson," Holmes said soothingly. "Mary is in no danger. Nor are the three sergeants. I noted that the people who had those seats on the twentieth of October were not residents of London. They were visiting from Bristol and gave their address as the Mansfield Hotel. I made the same sort of arrangements for you and the sergeants. You recall I know the owner of the Mansfield and he owed me a favor for dealing with that matter of the briefcase and the bonds. He set aside a suite, listing it as occupied by a Dr. Twofork and guests."

"And what about yourself?" I asked. "Were you included among Dr. Twofirk's guests?"

"Of course not, Watson," he all but scoffed. "I gave my true address when reserving the tickets. How else are we supposed to catch the murderer?"

"We?" I asked. "You wish me to be at 221B tomorrow night?"

"Naturally," he replied with a gleam in his eye. "Since it was you who linked the clues together for me, I think it fitting for you to be there when we capture this despicable creature."

"Very well, Holmes," I said. "I shall be there."

"So shall Scotland yard, Watson," he said grimly. "Bradstreet will have two dozen men dispersed in the homes and businesses surrounding 221B. They will be in place before nightfall. I specifically asked the redoubtable Sergeant Harper to hand pick them. If there is a man on the force who knows who can be counted on, I'm sure it is he."

The next evening I was literally closeted away in Mrs. Hudson's linen closet on the landing outside Holmes' flat. Holmes himself was alone. I could hear him playing his violin until late in the evening. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to provide me with a reasonably comfortable chair from her kitchen before retiring to her own rooms for the night. She and Billy would be tucked away safely behind locked doors.

Hours passed and the night was getting late when I heard a muffled thump above my head. It was hardly loud enough to disturb a sleeping man and I had to listen very carefully to be sure I had actually heard it. A scraping sound as the attic door opened convinced me that I was not imagining things. I readied my revolver and placed my free hand on the wall next to the door knob so as not to chance rattling it and thereby alerting the killer to my presence.

Looking through the keyhole I saw a dim figure bent low in front of Holmes' door. Very faintly I heard a scratching noise and realized the man was picking Holmes' lock. I was tempted to rush out and brain him with the barrel of my revolver, but Holmes had expressly warned me to wait until he called out for help. Only in that way could the man be arrested on a charge of attempted murder and sent to the gallows. A fate he richly deserved in my opinion.

Finally the intruder opened Holmes' door and slipped in. I waited a moment before opening the closet door and carefully stepping out. I knew the landing well. In the middle where most of the traffic was the boards were loose and if trod upon they would creak or groan. Therefore, I kept to the wall where the boards were well supported. I edged along until I was right outside Holmes' door and held my breath. It seemed a long vigil, but logically I know it could not have been more than a minute. When the time came bedlam broke loose. I heard Holmes cry out and bodies hit the floor. I sprang into the flat and reached to turn up the gas just as a man was flung through Holmes' bedroom door. He rolled to his feet a naked blade in his hand and I took aim. The man froze in place, a startled and angry look on his face. Holmes came from his room with his Indian dagger.

"Vestergaard!" said Holmes. "Albert Vestergaard. The second Violinist."

From below came the sound of both the front and back doors being thrown open and men in boots charging across Mrs. Hudson's hardwood floor and up the stairs.

"Drop that knife," I commanded and cocked back the hammer on my weapon.

"Drop it, Vestergaard," warned Holmes. "There's no escape. By now the building is completely surrounded and there are five officers already in the house."

Vestergaard said something in a language I could not understand and cast down his knife. Inspector Bradstreet and Sergeant Harper came into the flat just then and took the man into custody.

"I'll need you to come down to the station tomorrow and make a statement, Mr. Holmes," Bradstreet said after Harper had taken the murderer away. "I don't really know how I can ever thank you, sir. I really don't."

"Never mind about that, Bradstreet," Holmes said. "This case itself was enough of a reward for me."

The constables and Bradstreet left and after we assured Mrs. Hudson and Billy that we were quite unharmed Holmes invited me to sit and have a brandy with him.

"Holmes, why did you not use your gun?" I asked once we were comfortable.

"I dropped it during the fight in the bedroom," he explained. "That dagger was the most convenient weapon to hand. Excellent work on your part, Watson. You didn't make a sound crossing the landing. And a very timely entrance, too."

"Forgive me for saying so, Holmes," said I, "but it sounded as though you were not particularly surprised to discover your assailant was a member of the orchestra."

"I wasn't, Watson," said he. "Looking at the stage lighting last night I realized the person who was most likely to be able to see the seats we occupied was in the string section and had to be fairly close to the audience. First or second violin would have the clearest view. Also, on the stage they would be at eye level with anyone in those seats."

"Why was that important, Holmes?" I asked and sipped from my snifter.

"The murderer needed to recognize the victim to be sure they had the right house." Holmes contemplated the liquid in his glass. "That is the only reason I can think of, Watson. Perhaps Vestergaard will tell us more when he is questioned."

"It seems he was mad, Holmes," I said. It was a disturbing thought.

"Mad, but there was a method to his madness," Holmes swirled his brandy and looked up at me. "I believe he used the seats as a sort of coin flip, Watson. It provided a randomness to his selection of victims. It worked fairly well to keep the police confused for thirteen weeks. He claimed twelve victims. It was only because you put me onto the concert tickets and seating that I was finally able to devise this trap. London, I think, owes you thanks, dear friend. As do I."

Such praise from Holmes humbled me and I found other things to speak of.

Months later, Vestergaard was hanged for his crimes. Justice was served and good to his word, Holmes made up the lost evening to Mary and myself. He took us out to dinner at Simpson's and then to a concert. I noted there was a new second violinist in the orchestra.

**The End**


	22. Inspector Lestrade's Christmas

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller - Detective Inspector Lestrade is not pleased he has to work on Christmas Day.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas at the Yard<strong>

"But it's been two weeks since I had a day off, sir," Detective Inspector Leastrade complained to Chief Inspector Willows. He was standing in the chief inspector's office while Willows read through documents and reports.

"Inspector Hornsby was assaulted last night, Lestrade," Willows replied absently as he paged through another folder. "And you already know Inspector Carstens is down with some fever or other. Very sick fellow. Poor chap."

"And Bradstreet and Gregson both have families," Lestrade sighed. "I know, sir. It's just that I worked every day for the last two weeks so that I could have Christmas for myself. Is it really necessary to have an inspector on duty on Christmas Day?"

"I'm afraid it is, Lesrade," Willows replied and tucked the folder he'd been examining into his drawer before sliding another off the stack on the corner of his desk and opening it. "What if there were some crime needing your attention, man? You're one of my best. I expect you to act like it. There are plenty of constables out there who will be spending Christmas Day here instead of with their families."

"Yes, sir," Lestrade sighed. He could tell there would be no use in pleading his case. Duty was duty.

The next morning, Christmas morning, church bells throughout the city were ringing as Lestrade pushed through the front doors of Scotland Yard. It was a cold and overcast day with a light snow falling and Lestrade was glad to get in out of the weather. At least he would have a fire going in his office stove. At least that was what he expected. His key turned in the lock and he pushed open the door finding the room quite cold. His stove had not been lit by the night staff.

"Sergeant," Lestrade called down the hallway. "What's the meaning of this? Why is there no fire in my office?"

"Sir?" Sergeant King, a veteran of some twenty-five years on the force replied. He strode down the hall and looked into the office. "Don't know, sir. I didn't know you were even scheduled to work today."

"Found out last evening before I went home," Lestrade said.

"Oh, I see, sir," said King. "Likely the night staff didn't know either. Shall I have one of the constable light it for you, sir?"

"No," sighed Lestrade. "I'll see to it myself, Sergeant."

"Very good, sir," King said and returned to his desk.

Lestrade spent a few minutes crumpling newspaper and stacking kindling. He lived alone and was well practiced at fending for himself. With a match he set the newspaper alight and waited for the kindling to catch before carefully adding a small amount of coal from his scuttle. Best to let it start small rather than risk smothering the fire and having to start from scratch.

"Tea, sir?" asked King from the doorway. He held up a small, steaming mug, smiling in a friendly manner.

"Yes, thank you, Sergeant," replied Lestrade rising from in front of the stove where the fire was burning well.

"Cold morning and all that, sir," said the sergeant, handing the inspector the mug. "Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas, Sergeant," Lestrade sighed, but he gave the man a grateful smile.

It took nearly half an hour for the fire to warm the room enough so that Lestrade could remove his coat. He reflected things could have been worse. The night staff might have waited another day to clean his office and then he would have been doubly put out. He went down the hall to the front desk and collected the list of prisoners being held in the cells. Two of the three were due to be released. He sighed. More paperwork to fill out and best he got to it.

After twenty minutes at his desk, plying pen to form, Lestrade made his way down to the cells with a constable. The cells were a dim, cheerless place always smelling of damp and sweat. At the far end was a door leading to an enclosed yard where the prisoners could stretch their legs when the weather permitted. Today there would be no need. No one in their right mind would want to be out there on such a cold day.

"Right," said Lestrade, examining the forms to be sure he had everything filled in properly. "Take these two out and then return to your duties, Constable."

Lestrade paused a moment in front of the occupied cell, examining the third form again. The prisoner was listed as Mr. Walter Smith. No address.

"Mr. Smith," Lestrade said through the bars to get the man's attention. "What is your address? I need it for this paperwork."

"Don't have an address, precisely, sir," said the young man, coming to the cell door. He had a black eye and a split lip. Lestrade noticed his knuckles were raw when Smith grasped the cell bars.

"Living on the street?" Lestrade asked, his pencil poised to make the notation.

"No, sir," Smith said. "I'm usually aboard ship."

"A sailor?" asked Lestrade, only passingly interested.

"That's right, sir," said Smith. "The _Margaret_ out of Christchurch, sir."

"So your address is in Christchurch, then?" Lestrade asked.

"I suppose so, sir," Smith said, his mouth screwing into a frown. "I live with my sister and her family when I'm not on the _Margaret_."

"I see you're in here for brawling, Smith," said Lestrade as he filled in the blank on the form.

"I am, sir," the young sailor replied.

"I suppose it wasn't your fault," Lestrade said doubtfully.

"It was and it wasn't, sir," said Smith. "I should never have let Johnny talk me into going into that pub. One drink, he said. One drink and off to the ship we would go."

"And how many drinks were there?" asked Lestrade. He really didn't care, but there was little enough to do in his office. He might as well waste some time talking to this lad.

"I had one beer," Smith said, shaking his head. "Johnny had two beers and then started in on rum."

"And the two of you fought over it?"

"Oh no, sir," Smith snorted. "Me and Johnny are mates. We get on pretty well. Johnny gets rowdy when he's drinking and I couldn't do nothing with him, sir. Slapped one of the girls on the bum and next thing we know half the men there are wanting a fight."

Lestrade smiled at the young man's tone.

"So where is Johnny now?" he asked.

"Likely back aboard the _Margaret_," replied Smith. "He scarpered as soon as he got close enough to the door. Left me to my own devices, you might say."

"And you ended up here," said Lestrade, filling in the last blank on the form. "Bad business, Smith."

"Aye," agreed the young sailor. "She'll sail this evening. All my kit's on board. Likely lose my place. Cilia won't be happy."

"Cilia?"

"My sister," Smith said. "I've had a good run with the _Margaret_. Three years an engineer. Started as one of the black gang. Worked my way up. Now I'll have to find another berth. Maybe go back to the trans-Atlantic lines. Months I'll be gone and no one to help her with the children and her rent till I get home. It'll be hard on them."

"Well, you'll be out in two days, Smith," said Lestrade and turned to go.

"Merry Christmas, sir," said Smith and turned to sit on the edge of his bunk.

"Oh," said the inspector, pausing to turn back. "Merry Christmas to you, too. As merry as it can be, anyway."

Four hours later Smith heard the door from the upper floor open. He sat up on his bunk and waited to see who it was. The narrow face of the inspector he'd spoken to earlier appeared, framed by the bars of the cell door. Someone was standing behind him. A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.

"On your feet, Mr. Smith," Lestrade said, motioning for the young man to rise.

"Yes, sir," said Smith, getting off the hard bunk with its thin blanket. "What's going on, sir?"

"Someone here to see you," said the inspector.

"There you are, Walter," said a deep voice. "Looking worse for wear, too."

"Mr. Polly?" wondered Smith. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"I made some inquiries, Smith," Lestrade said. "Looked into the files and whatnot. Seeing as you've only been in trouble in Christchurch once, four years ago, and no record of any other slips, I went down to the docks and had a word with your captain. He gave you a good recommendation and let me speak with your friend, Johnny. After that I pulled a string or two and your first officer here signed off on taking custody of you."

"I'm charged with taking you straight to the ship and you aren't to leave her for two days," grinned Mr. Polly. "I don't think that will be a problem."

"I'm free to go?" Smith asked, unbelieving.

"In Mr. Polly's custody, Smith," Lestrade said with a nod. "Merry Christmas."

"How can I ever thank you, sir?" Smith asked, gleefully.

"Don't try," Lestrade replied. "It's the least I can do for someone in your straights. Consider it a Christmas present, if you like."

"Thank you, sir!" Smith said and took Lestrade by the hand, giving it a firm shake.

When the two sailors left, Lestrade settled behind his desk and put his feet in front of his stove. His office had finally warmed to a comfortable temperature and he felt pleased with himself. He'd done a good deed and a family would be saved from uncertainty. He had good reason to feel pleased. A knock at his door roused him from his reverie.

"Come in," he said and smiled when Sergeant King opened the door. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"Tea, sir," said King and set another mug on the inspector's desk. "Would you care for a piece of cake, sir?"

"Cake?" asked Lestrade, picking up the mug.

"My wife bakes one every year, sir," King explained. "Tells me it's a little bit of home to bring with me."

"You work here every Christmas?" asked Lestrade.

"For the past eleven years, sir," confirmed the sergeant. "Children are grown, you see. Better I work than one of the others what has family at home, sir."

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "Yes, Sergeant. I think I would like a piece of cake, if you have some to spare."

"Back in a jiffy, sir," Sergeant King said with a smile.

"Better to be here than home alone," Lestrade mused. What would he have done with his Christmas, anyway? A long train ride to get to his parents' home and then another to get back to London. At least this way he was spending time with a sort of family, wasn't he?

**The End**


	23. The Less Than Silent Night

Prompt from Madam'zelleGiry - Carolers storming 221B

* * *

><p><strong>The Adventure of the Less Than Silent Night<strong>

The Reverend Barnaby Giry was very pleased with his choir. They had been out for only an hour singing to the crowds passing down Baker Street and pausing in front of several of the houses in hopes of receiving something warm to keep their strength up. His wife, Jennifer, had collected twelve pounds, six pence for the poor and it was looking like it would be a very good night.

"Let's give Mrs. Hudson a try," Jennifer said. "She's always got some hot punch to share out."

"Yes," agreed the reverend. "And she always enjoys our rendition of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'."

The choir moved into position at the foot of the steps in front of the house at 221 Baker Street and with a blow of the pitch pipe the Reverend Giry signaled his parishioners to begin.

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen

Let nothing you dismay

Remember, Christ our…"

**BBAAAAAAMMM!**

The entire choir faltered to a halt as window glass from the upper story flew out above the street and began tinkling down. A cloud of smoke billowed out of the now paneless frame and light flickered within. The carolers stared in shock as did many of the passersby.

"A gas line explosion!" shouted the good reverend. "Jennifer, call the fire brigade! You men, follow me!"

Giry, a large man in his forties, leapt up the short flight of steps and slammed his shoulder into the door, bursting the lock from the frame. His carolers at his heels he stormed up the staircase to the flat on the first floor and tried the knob. It was locked. From within he could hear two men shouting, apparently in distress.

"Come on lads!" Giry cried and threw himself against the door. There was too little room to gain any momentum so the door resisted their first effort, but sprang open upon their second. More smoke billowed out into the stairwell as the cracked panel swung open on its hinges. "Right! Follow me! Stay low!"

Giry and his men entered the flat in a crouch only to find the cloud of smoke already considerably dissipated. A well-built man stood near the window, fanning the smoky air with a newspaper while a tall, slim man was vainly attempting to brush soot off his blackened dressing gown. There was no sign of a ruptured gas line. Aside from the smoke, the destroyed window and the soot covered man, there was no sign of damage. What the devil was going on?

"Who are you, sir, and why have you broken down our door?" demanded the soot covered man.

"I thought…" Giry blinked at him. The man's face looked as though he were made up to play in one of those American minstrel shows, with only his eyes and mouth clear of the soot that coated everything else. "That is, we believed a gas line had exploded."

"Mr. Holmes!" cried Mrs. Hudson, entering the room. "Now what have you done?"

"It was only an experiment, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes replied, finally giving up on his attempt to clean his ruined dressing gown.

"I warned you something like this would happen one day, Holmes," the well-built man by the window said, continuing to fan the air with his newspaper. "You so rarely listen to me."

"Are you gentlemen alright, then?" Reverend Giry asked, bewildered.

"Quite alright," said Holmes straightening his dressing gown. "A slight miscalculation in ingredients, I assure you."

"Mr. Holmes, you'll be paying for all the repairs," Mrs. Hudson growled with the fury only a woman proud of her home could muster.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said stiffly.

"And there's our door to replace."

"I am not responsible for that, Watson," Holmes replied. "It is these men you must look to."

"It certainly is not!" snapped the elderly landlady. "You, Mr. Holmes, were the reason they felt the need to smash my front door and the door to your flat. You are responsible."

Holmes was about to protest, but Watson interrupted him.

"Here comes the fire brigade again," Watson said. "I'll go down and tell them it's a false alarm."

"Come along, Reverend," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the clergyman by the arm. I'll get you and your choir some nice hot punch. It'll help soothe your nerves, I imagine. Tenants who think they can play with explosives in my home. What will he try next? Indoor target practice? Really!"

The reverend and his flock watched for a few minutes as the doctor explained the situation to the fire brigade. They stood bemused as Mrs. Hudson groused about the bizarre behavior of her tenant and his infernal experiments. Gradually she calmed and even began speaking fondly of the gentleman.

"At least it is never boring around here, Reverend," she laughed. "And here's six pence for the poor."

"Um… Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Reverend Giry said, passing the coins to his wife. "Would you like us to finish our song?"

"Come back tomorrow evening, Reverend," she said. "I will make certain there is no interruption for you."

The reverend and his choir returned their cups to her and stood, uncertain how to proceed for a few minutes.

"Perhaps, dear, we should return to the church and begin again tomorrow," Jennifer said.

And so it was. The next evening they returned to 221 Baker Street and were able to finish their carol without interruption. Mrs. Hudson gave them more hot punch and several biscuits each. The good doctor put two shillings into their collection box. And there was no sign of Mr. Holmes, who apparently was having some trouble hearing anything but the ringing in his ears.

**The End**


	24. Change of Heart

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls - Watson decides to read A Christmas Carol to Holmes on Christmas Eve. What does Holmes think of it?

AN: Takes place one year after my story 'A Holmesian Carol'.

* * *

><p><strong>The Mystery of the Curious Change of Heart<strong>

"… was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us every one!" Watson read cheerfully and snapped the little book shut. "What did you think of it, Holmes?"

"Rather tamer than I thought it would be, Watson," Holmes replied and began filling his pipe, seeming to be occupied with his own thoughts.

"Tamer?" Watson demanded, his confusion obvious. "It... Holmes… Tamer? It's a Christmas story, Holmes! And I don't believe it is particularly tame. Dickens wrote what is arguably THE Christmas story. I mean, aside from what is recounted in the Bible. Isn't it an interesting observation on the plight of man and a poignant commentary on social justice?"

"It could be taken as such, Watson," Holmes agreed, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Watson frowned at him, considering his old friend's mood quite seriously.

"Nothing is wrong, dear fellow," Holmes said with a dismissive wave of his and then struck a match to light his pipe.

"You know, Holmes, you've changed since you returned," said Watson gently.

"In what way?" asked the detective.

"Last year you were the most obstinately cantankerous soul in all of London," said Watson, leaning back in his chair and fishing out his favorite pipe. He began stuffing the mild blend of tobacco he favored into it, suffering a disapproving glance from Holmes. "And then you came knocking on my door to ask me to move back in here with you. A complete change and over a single night, too. I never asked for more of an explanation than what you gave me that morning. I don't ask for one now. But I want you to know that I noticed it. I can't help but to notice this sudden change in mood."

"You asked me if I would listen to you read 'A Christmas Carol', Watson," Holmes said sedately. "I did listen, and then when you asked what I thought, I told you."

"And your mood change in the short time it took me to read the story," Watson said and cast his spent match into the fire. "What is on your mind?"

"Memories, Watson," said Holmes. "Some good. Some… not good at all. And some are the best one can hope to have."

Watson narrowed his eyes at Holmes and wondered, but could make nothing more of what his friend had just said. He was about to speak when Holmes raised a hand with a smile and looked towards the window.

"Carolers, Watson," said Holmes, rising from his seat. "Shall we go down and listen to them?"

"You really are the most mercurial man I have ever known, Holmes," sighed Watson and rose to follow his friend out the door and down to the front of the house. "I can remember a time when you disliked carolers."


	25. Christmas

Prompt from Lucillia - Christmas.

AN: I know I keep referencing my story 'A Holmesian Carol', but these last two prompts fit so neatly into that particular storyline, I couldn't help it.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas<strong>

Sherlock Holmes sat beside the little fireplace in his bedroom pondering the coals that occasionally sputtered or popped. He smoked his pipe and looked at his clock, wondering if he was right. Wondering if he was a fool. Wondering if he had simply dreamed it all last year. And then he didn't need to wonder anymore. A shining, pure light shone from under his door and grew in intensity until it leaked through the seams around the frame and filled his room with the whitest of lights.

Stunned, Holmes slowly rose to his feet, setting aside his pipe. He stared in awe at the door for an instant and then rushed to open it. The sittingroom was filled with the beautiful light and he smiled as he had not smiled in many a long day. She had returned!

Slowly the light grew less and to his joy he saw that the room was once more filled with the multiplicity of adornments he had seen once before. Blazing logs filled the fireplace. A tree ten times larger than what should fit in the small sittingroom stood in the corner with a wealth of brightly wrapped presents under it and hung with sparkling ornaments. Garlands stretched from wall to wall and framed all of the windows. A feast of good foods and roasted goose was laid out on the table normally reserved for his chemical apparatus and the air was scented with fresh cut pine boughs. And standing before the fire was a womanly form in a familiar red cloak. She held a crystal goblet in her hand and smiled upon him genially.

Holmes' steps faltered and the smile vanished from his face.

"Who are you?" he asked, bewildered.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present, of course," laughed the woman.

"No you aren't," said Holmes and strode up to look at her closely. "I have met the Ghost of Christmas Present and you are not she! Wait!" Holmes' eyes flew wide and he stepped back in shock. "You're Mary Watson!"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present, Mr. Holmes," the Spirit said gently. "You see me as Mary Watson."

"But… Why?" he asked. "Last year you looked like Irene Norton."

"I was not here last year, Mr. Holmes," said the Spirit and handed him her goblet. Rich red wine swirled inside it. "Drink this, Mr. Holmes. I think you need it more than I."

"You were here," Holmes stated firmly. "Can you not remember?"

"My sister was here," she chuckled. "She _was_ the Ghost of Christmas Present. I _am_ the Ghost of Christmas Present."

Holmes' mind cleared as understanding filtered in.

"So there is a new Spirit every year," he said nodding. "Of course, there must be. It makes perfect sense."

"Indeed," the Spirit laughed softly.

"But why have you come this year?" he asked.

"Because you were expecting me to," she said simply.

"You have no special mission, then?" he asked.

"I do, but not for a little while yet," she said and found a seat in Watson's chair. From somewhere she picked up another goblet and sipped wine.

"You haven't come for Watson, have you?" asked Holmes, taking his own chair next to the fire.

"No," she said with a smile. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you wear the form of his late wife," said he.

"Ah," she said and sipped from her wine again. "And you were expecting Irene Adler. Or should I say you were hoping for Irene Adler."

"Norton," Holmes corrected.

"Adler," she said with a sly grin. "I speak what is, Mr. Holmes. It's part of my calling."

"Then tell me why it is that you appear to me as Mary Watson," he said.

"Perhaps because you needed to see Mary this night," she said. "Because you were wondering if you had been a fool."

"I…" Holmes broke off and looked down into his wine, then took a drink. The wine was very good and he instantly felt lighter of heart. "I suppose it is useless to deny the truth. I envy Watson his time with Mary. I envied her, her time with Watson."

"And you continue to wonder what it would have been like if you had married Alice Howell," the Spirit added. "Or perhaps Irene Adler."

"Yes." Holmes could not bring himself to look up. He was somehow ashamed to admit the truth, even to this Spirit. "Can you show me?"

"I can only show what is, Mr. Holmes," she said gently. "And this night I have not the time to spare for you."

"I see," he said. He stiffened his resolve and looked up into her eyes. "Well, I shan't detain you longer, then. Thank you for your visit and Merry Christmas, Spirit."

"I'm not going yet," she said with another radiant smile. "I haven't the time to show you anything, Mr. Holmes, but I can take a few minutes to tell you what is. Perhaps that will help you decide if you were a fool. It may not take away your regret, I'm sorry to say."

"Very well," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Tell me what is."

"England is at peace on this fine winter's night," she said. "There are families throughout Europe who rest easy in their beds. Your friend Dr. Watson is alive and well. He misses his wife, but his greatest friend is returned to him. Wiggins continues to study hard and it looks as though he will one day become a very good man. There are wicked men behind bars and the people of this city are safer because of it. And there is a cabdriver who was able to feed his wife and children this Christmas Eve."

"These are all fine things, Spirit, but I don't quite understand," said Holmes. "What you said of Watson is clear enough, but how do these other things apply to me?"

"It is more in line with how you apply to them," she chuckled. "Really, Mr. Holmes. You are the greatest detective of your age and yet you cannot deduce the relevance?"

"How I apply to them?" Holmes mused aloud. "Are you saying that somehow I have influenced all of these people?"

"My sister said you were thick," the Spirit teased. "I'll have to tell her you haven't changed."

"Thank you very much," Holmes said sarcastically.

"You're welcome," she chuckled. "Of course you influenced the people I mentioned. Were it not for you, Sherlock, England would be at war and her young men would be fighting and dying on the continent and at sea. How many scandals have you averted that would have torn families apart? You already know what would have happened to John had you not brought him back to live with you. And had you not taken a firm hand with young Wiggins, what would have become of him by now?"

"And the cabdriver?" Holmes asked.

"Two days ago you employed him for a full day and then gave him two additional guineas for his good service," she explained. "He purchased a rather fat goose, a sack of potatoes and a few other things. His family will be eating well for the rest of the week."

"I see," Holmes said and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.

"All because you are who you are and because you made the choices you made, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the Spirit said forcefully. "Not even your brother could do what you have done, my dear sir."

Holmes considered her quietly for a long moment and then gave a nod. He understood.

"I am sorry I could not take away your regrets," she said.

"Tell me one other thing before you go, Spirit," he said. "What of Irene Adler?"

She smiled again and sipped her wine.

"Can you not tell me?" he asked. "Is she truly dead?"

"I can tell you she celebrates Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," the Spirit replied and then the light in the room began to grow until once more it blotted out everything. When Holmes could see again he blinked and looked around. The room had returned to what it had been before the Spirit's visit and he was left feeling uncertain, though not in a bad way. He took another sip from his wine before realizing the goblet should not be in his hand, and then he smiled.

**The End**


End file.
